The Case of Three Brothers
by Sandylee007
Summary: 2015 PROFILER'S CHOICE AWARDS RUNNER UP FOR 'BEST CROSSOVER'. Diana Reid didn't have only one son but three. Two of them were taken to distant England while one of them never even knew that the others existed. What happens when they meet as adults? One thing is for certain. Things will never be the same again. SEQUEL NOW PUBLISHED
1. Prologue

A/N: I'm just about to finish one project so I just HAD TO unleash this new one that's been sitting in the back of my head for quite a while. (grins) This whole consept just tastes juicy to me. Perhaps I'm not the only one…?

DISCLAIMER: (insert LOUD laughing) Are you freaking kidding me?! If only I was so lucky…! But NOPE, me owns nothing. And absolutely no profit is made out of typing this. I'll have to continue feeding my bank account otherwise…

WARNINGS: CROSSOVER. VERY adult themes. Mentions of child abuse and heavily implied mental illness. Language. Potentially a hint of gore in the future. General weirdess, which is to be expected, since this is my story…

Awkay, I think I've been stalling long enough. Soooo… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

**_The Case of Three Brothers_**

* * *

Prologue

* * *

There were a lot of days when social worker Samantha Jackson, a thirty-three year old who appeared much older with her wrinkles, didn't enjoy her job. When the constant stigma of a bad guy was almost too painful to bear. Today was one of them. She took a deep breath as the elevator climbed upwards, taking a look at the file in her hands.

Just hours earlier a doctor contacted her, concerned over a child's suspicious injuries. As soon as she began to scroll through all the information Samantha found herself sharing those worries. The Reid family became her client.

The mother, Diana Reid, was only sixteen when she had her first child, Charles Mycroft Howard, now seven years old, soon eight. The first signs of her schizophrenia showed themselves during her pregnancy. Since then they'd become a lot stronger, landing her to involuntary treatment twice and forcing her on medication. Medication which she skipped during her second pregnancy. Her younger son, William Sherlock Scott, was now three years old. As of lately Diana's symptoms had become far more aggressive. Hallucinations, commanding voices, delusions, paranoia… Diana's husband and the father of the boys, William Reid, was in the picture. But he had busy work schedules and he couldn't monitor what was going on in his house constantly. Which, evidently, was a lot. Diana's psychiatrist was the first one to grow alarmed. Another doctor joined soon after.

The first time Charles ended up to a hospital he was three years old. A broken wrist, sustained from one of his adventures. Innocent enough for an active child. The second time came when he was five. The third and fourth followed at the age of six. And then came number five, just today. So far Diana had been able to explain away the injuries, to others and most importantly to herself. But this time there were other bruises. And what really set the wheels turning was that for the first time little William had bruises, too.

Samantha sighed heavily and put the file away, feeling sick to her stomach. Two very loving, devoted parents. But one of them was just too sick to take care of their sons. The injustice of it all made her want to scream.

A few moments later she was escorted towards a hospital room. The nurse showing her the way, a kind faced woman in her late fifties, looked like she'd been crying. "Their mom… She became hysterical when we kept her from seeing them. We had to sedate her. Their father is in too much shock to talk about or decide anything."

Samantha gritted her teeth. Hard. "The boys?"

The nurse sighed. "They're about as okay as anyone in their situation can be. William's too young to really understand what's happening. Charles… Honestly, I don't know how he's taking it all. He's barely talked to any of us."

Samantha inhaled deeply. It hurt far more than it should've. "Let's see if I can make him any more vocal." With a nod of 'thank you' she entered the room. And stilled.

Both of the boys occupied the bed. Obviously they'd refused to be torn apart. The younger one, William was sound asleep, curled up with one of his tiny hands clutching Charles' nearly desperately. Tear streaks were visible on the child's cheeks. The bruise nearby his eye stood out much more sharply.

The older boy wasn't sleeping. It was easy to tell that he'd been crying, too, but at the moment his eyes were sharp and dry upon measuring her up from head to toe. The expression on his face shouldn't have belonged to a child. It looked almost more out of place than the cast on his left arm. "We won't get to go home, will we?" It was a statement rather than a question.

Samantha shook her head, letting all the sadness inside her show. He needed to know that she wasn't doing this just because she wanted to be cruel. "I'm sorry, Charles. But I don't know. My colleagues and I… We need to think about what's best for you and your brother."

"She didn't mean to hurt me." Charles' eyes were unreadable while he focused on his brother, guarding the younger one's sleep. All of a sudden the boy looked incredibly tired. "Or Will. I should've done a better job at protecting him."

"It's not your job to keep your brother safe. It's parents who protect children", Samantha pointed out. Barely managing to keep her voice from breaking.

Charles seemed to consider those words for a moment. Then, out of the blue, sheer terror appeared to the older child's eyes. They turned quickly towards her. "Will… He won't be sent to a different family, right? He… He's just a baby. He wouldn't understand it." The boy swallowed convulsively, visibly panicked. "And… He's afraid of the dark. He can't sleep without a night lamp on. He's scared of spiders, too. The new family… They wouldn't know stuff like that. I need to go with him."

Samantha gulped, too. It was impossible to swallow down the lump in her throat. "This must all be scary. But I promise that everything will be alright, one day." In full honesty she wasn't sure how much she'd be able to do. But he was losing his home and his parents and she had to give him _something_.

His eyes, however, told her that he didn't believe her and that it'd take a very long time before he'd believe in someone again.

* * *

The sun was shining painfully brightly on the day the brothers were dragged from the life that they used to know. Pulled violently into a life and place that they had no idea of. "Where's mommy?" the younger one kept asking. Understandably scared and confused. Far too young for any of this. Tears shone in the boy's eyes when they met his brother's. "Charlie, where's mommy? I wanna go home."

Charles wasn't crying anymore. The child's face appeared almost stoned as he squeezed his brother's hand, determinedly looking away from both the younger child and the adults escorting them. "We'll never see home again. There's no use in crying."

It should've been a good thing. Two children were taken towards a better, safer life. They'd never be harmed by their mother again, physically or emotionally. Still no one present felt like it was a victory when the younger brother began to cry even harder and the older one seemed to linger in a world of his own.

* * *

Time passed by, as it inevitably does. It was raining on the Wednesday afternoon Jessica Kingston from the adoption services met a couple in London. Despite the weather the couple's spirits were beyond high. After a torturously long wait and so many disappointments…

"So?" the wife urged. Her gentle eyes were sparkling. "You said that you had news."

Jessica nodded. "Yes. We… may have a little boy who just might be your son. But… there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

The couple tensed up. Clearly preparing for the worst, yet again. "What is it?" the husband was brave enough to breathe out.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes… That boy I'm planning on introducing you to has a very special background with a mentally ill, occasionally violent mother. The abuse, especially the emotional kind, and the forced separation still affect him. He has quite the temper." There was a pause. "And… The boy also has a big brother." Jessica's eyes went from the husband to wife and back again. "I undersand perfectly if this sounds like too much for you."

For a mighty while the couple stared at her with very much open stun. They then looked at each other. Their hands, which had been joined the entire time, tightened still. Tears were running down the wife's face and the husband didn't seem far behind as they began to chuckle simultaneously. The husband wiped at his eyes when looking back at her. "We… We've always wanted several children. We never imagined…" He trailed off.

The wife, her tears mostly dried, offered him a small smile. She then looked at her, her eyes sparkling even brighter than before. "And we made it clear from the start that we're not afraid of challenge. So… What are their names?"

"Sherlock and Mycroft Reid."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Poor boys! (sniffles) But at least they'll have a pair of loving adoptive. And we all know that there'll be a brother number three! We'll see what happens when they all meet.

Sooooo… Any good, at all? It's always a bit scary to start out a new story so it'd mean a lot to hear from you.

In any case, thank you so much for reading! And who knows, maybe I'll see ya again one day.

Take care!


	2. Divided Brothers

A/N: Yup, it's definitely updating time. BUT, before getting to the actual business…

MY GOSH! THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for the absolutely amazing reception this new fic received! I can't believe how many friends the very first chapter made. (HUGS) I really hope that what's to come won't disappoint, either.

Awkay… Because I know that you'd rather get on with the story, let's go! I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Divided Brothers

* * *

/ _A month in their new home turned into two. Two turned into four. And eventually Mycroft, who refused to be called by his original first name by these strangers, realized that half a year had slipped by. Half a year without seeing his parents and home, everything he'd learned to know. He hated it but he also couldn't bear the thought of being sent away from Sherlock. That's why he did everything he could to be the perfect son for these people who'd greeted them with tears and smiles._

_He behaved. He kept his room clean. He made sure to work hard at school, to be a honor student. He even tried to learn the British accent. If these people wanted the illusion of a son he'd give them one, anything to get to stay close to his brother._

_He promised his mom to protect Sherlock and that's what he'd do, no matter what._

_Sherlock, of course, was too young to understand his behavior. The boy seemed confused by his new way of speaking. And furiously betrayed by the fact that he didn't seem to be struggling against this new arrangement. That he didn't seem to miss their real parents at all. They fought quite a bit. Well, as much as a eight year old and a four year old could. Sherlock fought with their adoptive parents, too, about everything._

_One Sunday morning they were all startled when the younger Reid couldn't be found from his room. Or from any of the fifty-two hideouts around the house the child had managed to find. In the end it was Mycroft who happened to look out the window to the pouring rain. Sherlock sat there at the side of the road on his full packed suitcase, obviously waiting to be picked up._

_Mycroft sighed heavily, then took a deep breath. His steps were heavy when they led him to his brother. "I admire your determination", he admitted. "But come inside. You'll fall ill out here."_

_Sherlock gave him a heated look. "I'm going back to mommy. I want mommy even if you don't love her anymore."_

_Those words hurt, immensely. It took all Mycroft had to keep it from showing. He couldn't reveal his true emotions when the Holmes' were looking at them through the window. "Don't be dull", he ordered. "We'll never see home again. We just… We have to adjust and forget." The good and the bad._

_Sherlock stared at him with disbelief and betrayal. Then narrowed his eyes. "I hate you!" Did the boy even understand what that word meant, properly? "I WANT MOMMY!"_

_Mycroft stared at his brother's face and realized that it was all too easy to tell where the rain ended and tears began. And right there Mycroft made a, in his opinion, very important discovery. Caring isn't an advantage. _

_Mycroft did what he'd done a lot when facing the brunt of idiotic school mates. He gritted his teeth and tried to swallow down the ache. But he was only eight and truthfully, missed his mommy, too. His attempts didn't quite work. "Well too bad because I'm all you have, now." When Sherlock refused to move Mycroft sighed heavily and shrugged. "Fine. Stay out here if you like but I'm going inside. Mrs. Holmes is baking a cake." That should work, eventually. Cake was Sherlock's favorite._

_Sherlock was stubborn, infuriatingly so. But half an hour later the house's door opened and steps could be heard approaching the kitchen. Mycroft, who'd been doing his math homework, hid a smile._

_That night Mycroft woke up to someone entering his room. He stiffened until a familiar child's voice whispered. "My? I'm cold and there's a monster under my bed." It was easy to hear the hidden words. '_Can I stay with you or are you angry at me?_'_

_Instead of offering words Mycroft budged, just enough to leave room for the smaller child. Sherlock climbed in stunningly quickly and snuggled closer. In a few moments they'd both relaxed enough to fall into a dreamless sleep._

_The following mornings the Holmes' were terrified to discover Sherlock missing again. They didn't need to look long for their younger charge, however. There he was, sleeping soundly and latched nearly desperately to his brother. About to wake up to the worst flue of his entire life. _/

* * *

/ _It was Christmas while Diana Reid sat in the middle of her far from fully ready new home in Las Vegas. It was a new start. A time of joy. She felt neither of those. Her eyes were red and puffy while she lifted them towards the two stars she'd put on the Christmas tree. They twinkled beautifully when the room's dim light hit them. It took a long time before she could look away and even longer before her hands stopped shaking long enough to allow her to finish writing a one more Christmas card._

_'_Merry Christmas, Charles and William. Wherever you are. I'm so sorry that I can't be there with you in person. It's something that I'll never, ever forgive myself for. But know this. Your mother loves you very much. And there's nothing I wouldn't give to be able to be with you. You're my special boys and I'll carry you with me for the rest of my life, wherever I go. Maybe I'll even get to see you two again one day. It'd be the best Christmas present of my entire life._'_

_About half an hour later her husband came back from visiting a friend. A sharp slash of pain went through him when he found her sleeping on the couch, signs of crying loud and clear on her face. That was when he noticed the card in her tight, nearly desperate hold. Equally curious and worried he approached, snatching it from her gently to take a look. In a few moments he wished that he'd never read the words._

_Ever since their sons were taken away he'd been holding himself back. His grief. His anger. His sheer terror over the thought of never seeing them again. But right there, reading her words through rapidly blurring eyes, he lost control._

_The card floated softly to the floor while he buried his face into both hands and broke down into bitter sobs. _/

* * *

To Spencer Reid the hospital spreading around him felt uncomfortably cold and loud. Clattering. Machines. Talking. Laughter. It was so full of life that at the moment it made him feel sick to his stomach. He leaned forward, his elbows leaning on his knees, and buried his face harshly into both hands. It didn't succeed in drowning out the rest of the world. Or…

"Spencer?" The familiar voice made him look up instantly. Approaching him was a man who had a grief-stricken look on his tense face. It took longer than it should've to identify the arrival as his mother's doctor from Bennington. In this place it felt odd to see a doctor in civil clothes. "I'm truly sorry."

Spencer nodded, not even trying to talk. And what was he supposed to say, anyway? He focused on the man for a while, eager to get something else to think about but the thoughts circling in his head like vultures. "You called when…" He cleared his throat. "After it was announced. What was it that you wanted to talk about?"

The doctor sighed. "I understand that this is the worst possible timing. But you'd find out soon enough, anyway. So…" It wasn't until then he became aware of the cardboard box. It was placed almost carefully to the chair beside his. "I think she would've wanted you to have these. Especially now."

Curious and alarmed, Spencer looked towards the box. What he found made him blink several times. It was full of unsent cards and letters. All of them written to people called William and Charles.

Spencer looked at the psychiatrist with wide open confusion. Unsure if he really wanted to know. "What are these?" he demanded anyway.

Sadness took over the older man's eyes. Along with a hint of hesitation. "Your mother's most painful and best kept secret."

* * *

One. Two. Three. Four.

The gunshots still seemed to echo in the air when Mycroft put away his gun and examined the results. Perfect shots, each and every single one of them. Good. It was highly important that he didn't let himself grow rusty. A position in the government like his didn't come without enemies.

"Some stress relief, sir?"

The voice, no matter how familiar, made him tense up for a moment. He turned his head slowly to see Anthea walking closer. He shrugged. "Preferable to several other options that came to mind", he stated. That was when he noticed the file she was carrying. The tension from before returned, sharper and colder than before. "Is that what I think it is?"

Anthea nodded slowly. The look in her eyes, however, was enough of a warning. "It is. And… I have some news."

* * *

The sight that Dr. John Watson faced upon entering 221B Baker Street made him freeze nearby the doorway. He sighed, smiling fondly without noticing. "Oh, I really missed _this_", he murmured to himself.

The smell of chemicals and what reeked suspiciously lot like rotting flesh hung heavily in the air. The aftermath of a case, obviously. The slight smell of something having burned hinted that it might not have been a successful one. John took a step forward, then another, leaving his marks on the dust that'd gathered to the floor. Splatters of something he hoped dearly wasn't what it looked like could be seen on the wall. In the kitchen three fingers were in a happily bubbling kettle on the stove. Was that a tongue waiting for its turn or had it been already processed somehow? The doctor wondered, in the back of his mind, how worrying it was that he was finding all of this comfortingly familiar instead of…

"Bloody hell…!"

After everything he'd seen since setting his foot in it was the coffee maker that made him snap. It hadn't survived Sherlock's latest experiment, then. It had quite nearly blown up and whatever little bits there remained were covered in a greenish goo.

He was already moving until Sherlock's voice interrupted him. "I wouldn't do that. If the experiment went according to the plan that substance is highly toxic to the touch."

John groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Lovely", he muttered, his voice full of sarcasm. He breathed in, then out, nice and slow. Then marched towards the living room, deciding that he wouldn't risk trying to make them tea right next to human body parts in boiling water.

Sherlock lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and it looked like the man had been that way for a very long time. In his dressing gown despite it being a late afternoon. Instantly a hand reached out towards him. "Pass me my phone. I believe it just rang."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes but did as he'd been told. "Well hello to you, too." He glanced towards the phone while it was taken from him and bit his lip to restrain a chuckle. It seemed that Mycroft had tried to call. "It's been ringing five times. And not just moments ago."

Sherlock seemed to lose all interest as soon as he saw who the caller was. Instead the man's sharp focus shifted towards him. "You haven't had a domestic with Mary. And work was tedious but nothing out of the ordinary. So what, exactly, are you doing here?"

John wasn't sure if it was all pathetic, tragic or amusing. "You're my friend", he pointed out. "And I haven't heard from you in five days. I'd say that it's acceptable to visit."

Sherlock didn't seem impressed. The man focused on the ceiling once more. "Do I have to pee in a jar again?"

John really, truly had to bite back what he would've wanted to say. He ended up sounding a lot calmer than the whole prospect made him feel. A remarkable feat. "Perhaps not. But one more of those jibes and I may change my mind." It wasn't until then he remembered the second reason to his visit. "Oh, and I almost forgot…! Someone tried to offer you a case… or something like that through my blog."

Well that certainly earned Sherlock's full attention. The detective was up at a speed that genuinely startled John and took the print he'd barely had the time to pull out. Keen eyes drank in the words with a baffling amount of curiosity. John knew what it was because he'd read the words countless of times, futilely trying to make sense of them.

'_I've been trying to find someone by the name William Sherlock Scott for a while now because I have something important to tell him. I was wondering if this Sherlock Holmes you've been blogging about could be the one? Does he know a woman called Diana Reid?_

_Spencer Reid_''

"Who's Diana Reid?" John inquired. Genuinely curious, as he always was at the promise of a new case. "And why has this… Spencer been looking for you?" There was no response. "Sherlock?"

John looked at his friend and felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. The detective was several degrees paler than usual. Was the man even shaking? There was a wild look in those wide, glazed over and moist eyes. The man's mind was clearly somewhere far away.

"Sherlock?" he tried again, this time with a great deal more urgency. Still nothing. "Sherlock, are you alright? Because you're scaring me here."

"Contact him", Sherlock commanded. Apparently not having heard a word he just said. Those eyes refused to meet his. "Tell him to call me as soon as possible to explain himself or he'll have the British government after him."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Those poor things…! (sniffles) But, at least it looks like the brothers are finally about to find each other. We'll see how it'll go if they do…

Sooo… Any good, at all? There's a tiny box down below with which you can let me know…

I've really start to head towards the bed now. Until next time, folks! I really hope that I'll see you all then.

Take care!

* * *

**Who-wants-to-know**: Thank you so much for the explanation! I seriously couldn't have typed it better.

My gosh, I'm REALLY happy to hear that you enjoyed the first chapter so much! I hope that what's to come won't disappoint, either.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	3. Three Soldiers

A/N: Yuuuuuuup, it's weekend so it's updating time! (rubs hands together) BUT, before letting the story of our brothers continue…

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for that amazing flood of reviews, listings and love! My gosh. It just blows my mind how many friends this story has gained! I PROMISE to do my best to ensure that you'll be just as pleased with what's to come.

Awkay, because I know what you came here for… Let's go! I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Three Soldiers

* * *

/ _Sherlock's very first day of school wasn't a good one. After catching his still lingering foreign accent the other children mocked him. He bit back with venomous words that got him into even more trouble._

_By the time he made it home he was dangerously close to tears. Ignoring the calls of his so called parents he rushed into his room and slammed the door, then hid himself to his bed under a blanket. Maybe if he'd just stay there long enough they wouldn't bother harassing him about going to school anymore._

_Sherlock didn't have any idea how long he spent there. Or that eventually the tears did break free, rolling silently down his cheek. He was just about to doze off when the room's door opened and familiar steps entered. The alluring scent of a sure to be delicious chicken dish met his nose, almost breaking his resolve to remain unseen._

_"You can't just hide here forever, Sherlock", Mycroft pointed out. "I know that it isn't easy. But the world is going to find you eventually."_

_Sherlock unleashed a sob, despite himself. "They're still mean, Mycroft. It was supposed to be different here."_

_Mycroft sighed heavily. "Most people are idiots. It's a cross we have to bear." There was a brief pause, during which the older boy sat to his bedside. "Now come out of hiding. Surely starving yourself isn't the answer."_

_Sherlock frowned. Worry twisted in his stomach although he was a little too young to understand exactly why. "You haven't eaten, either", he pointed out._

_"Irrelavant. Now eat. Mommy made your favorite." They'd started calling Mrs. Holmes mommy whenever she might hear because it seemed to be something she liked. And they wanted to make her happy to ensure that she wouldn't send them away, too. It was starting to feel disturbingly natural to call her that._

_Slowly, with a bit of reluctance, Sherlock obeyed. He crawled out from underneath the bedcovers and sat as close to his brother as possible, then began to eat although he wasn't really hungry. Somewhere along the way his wiped at his cheek, surprised to find it moist. "Do you think she still misses us?" It didn't have to be elaborated who he meant._

_Mycroft tensed up instantly. Like he always did when she was brought up. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm pretty sure that she does."_

_Sherlock looked at his brother who seemed a little pale all of a sudden. He frowned. Usually he was pretty good at reading people but the older Reid had always been a mystery to him. "Do you miss her?"_

_Mycroft swallowed loudly and wouldn't look at him. "Stop stalling and focus on eating. And if you try to skip the broccoli again I'll tell mommy."_

_Sherlock made a face but obeyed._ /

* * *

There was a massive, firmly bolted room in Sherlock's Mind Palace. He must've locked it up years ago but he'd deleted the reason. Obviously. Against his natural curiosity he'd even tried to avoid imagining what that room might conceal.

But he hadn't had the heart to delete the name Diana Reid because he couldn't let himself forget who he really was and where he came from. Even if both she and Mycroft stopped fighting to bring their family together he refused to let go completely. So he kept that name, storaged it amongst the greatest treasures of his Mind Palace, and kept it as his own secret. Kept it where no one would be able to take it away from him, even if people with kind, deceiving smiles and sad eyes had robbed away his parents and home.

And now, for the first time since his early childhood, her name was brought up.

John refused to publish Sherlock's phone number on his very much public blog. But as it turned out such wasn't even necessary. Because thirty tedious, pacing filled minutes after the doctor posted Sherlock's demand to contact the detective the dial tone of a cell phone could be heard. Sure enough, it was an unfamiliar number.

Blatantly ignoring John's worried questions as mere annoying white noise Sherlock picked up. If his hand wasn't exactly steady he refused to acknowledge it. "Hello?"

"_Is… this Sherlock Holmes?_" At Sherlock's grunt Spencer somehow seemed to gather that it was time to continue. Perhaps this one wasn't completely hopeless. "_A friend of mine searched your number for me._" The caller cleared his throat. "_I… found some letters and cards that had your name, so… I decided to contact you. Because you deserve to know._"

During that relatively short speech Sherlock let his mind tick on, willed himself to gather everything possible. This Spencer Reid sounded fairly young. And he was definitely from the United States. As well as very, very nervous. Clearly this wasn't a pleasant phone call, even without the threat of British government.

"Know what?" Sherlock bit out. He was growing severely irritated. Irritated, because he didn't do anxious. "How do you know Diana Reid?" And how had this person been able trace her to him, even with the supposed letters and cards? He'd imagined that especially since the threat of James Moriarty Mycroft had been careful to erase absolutely all leads that might connect them to their birth mother.

There was a very long pause. When Spencer spoke again the man's voice broke. "_My full name… It's Spencer Sherrinford Erik Reid. Diana… She's… _was_ my mom. Or, uh, I guess _our _mother._" Was that a sob? Sherlock couldn't really tell with how ice cold water seemed to be filling his entire body, baiting his breath. "_She, um… She passed away a few days ago._"

* * *

If John was fully honest with himself he had absolutely no bloody clue what was going on. At first this stranger, Spencer, appeared, mentioning some Diana's name. Then Sherlock was pacing around like a caged wild beast, muttering incoherently under his breath. Did the detective know that he was doing that? John's questions, which eventually escalated to shouts, didn't seem to be getting through. After about fifteen minutes the younger man marched into his room and slammed the door, leaving John beyond confused.

John didn't know how long passed. It felt like a small eternity, really. During the torturous wait he sent Mary a text, announcing that his little visit might take quite a bit longer than he'd originally intended.

'_Need a hand?_'' was her immediate response.

John couldn't resist the tiny smile that appeared to his lips. '_No. But something's telling me that I'll be needing a stiff drink when this is all over._'

John's dark deductions were proven correct when Sherlock finally showed himself. A frown made it to his face when he watched the detective storming past. That expression… It was nothing short of torn. The last time he saw it was with Magnussen. An occasion he preferred not remembering. "Sherlock?" he tried although he knew that he was wasting his breath. "What's wrong?"

The slam of a door answered him.

It didn't take long before John's phone rang. He wasn't exactly surprised to discover that it was Mycroft. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose before picking up. "If you're looking for Sherlock…"

"_I'm perfectly capable of tracking my own brother, thank you._" Did the older Holmes actually sound offended? "_I'm under the assumption that my brother… received some news. And I'm going to ask you to do something for him._"

John's eyebrow arched with suspicion. A shiver of well justified dread went through him. Why did he have a feeling that he wasn't going to like this? "And what would that be?" he inquired with patience that he didn't really feel.

"_Prepare yourself for a visit to the United States._"

* * *

It took Mycroft less than half an hour to find Sherlock. There were five or, if he widened his criteria, seven places where to look. A curiously low number, really. It was almost like Sherlock wanted to be found.

In the end they stood side by side on the rooftop of Bart's. Their eyes were atypically dark and thoughtful while they stared down at the world that was rushing on so quickly that it was tripping on its own feet. Both trying not to think and ending up processing too much.

They pulled out and lit cigarettes almost simultaneously. It was the same brand their birth mother used to prefer. Well, they say that scent memory is the strongest.

"John wasn't very impressed with your dramatic exit", Mycroft pointed out at last. He took a deep drag and held it in although the urge to cough was almost overwhelming. "I'd imagine that he wouldn't be any happier if he knew that you came here." His nose wrinkled while he tapped off some ash, letting the wind carry it away. "Sentiment."

"She's dead."

It came out so unexpectedly, so sharply, that for a few moments they both froze. As though actually realizing those words to be true for the first time. The wind biting them seemed to turn colder.

Mycroft lifted his gaze towards the sky, focusing on the heavy clouds. It would rain soon. "Yes", he murmured. He realized, with a degree of surprise, that it made him feel sadder than it should've. She hadn't been a part of his life since he was a boy. What was the point in feeling a thing? Instead of the infuriating gnawing deep inside he chose to focus on his brother. "And how, exactly, did you find out?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed in a nearly hazardous manner. The following words were spat out like the most bitter poison. "Our brother contacted me. His name is Spencer Reid."

It was shocking, really, that those words managed to surprise Mycroft. Yes, they'd known that their real mother gave birth to a third son. A… friend owed Mycroft a favor, allowing him to see some information that he should've had no business scrolling through. But until now they'd imagined that the said brother had also grown up away from her. The familiar surname, however, proved that theory false.

Mycroft gritted his teeth, then coughed. In full reality he wasn't sure what to do. "We'll need to have that information confirmed", he pointed out. There was no point in trusting some hypothetical brother who came out of nowhere right after her death. No theories were to be made without all the facts.

"It _is_ confirmed", Sherlock all but hissed. Eyeing on his rapidly draining cigarette like it'd been his mortal enemy. The younger man then threw it to the street below, watching with apparent satisfaction how it spiraled down to its doom. The sight made Mycroft's stomach turn a little.

Mycroft's eyebrow arched. He dumped his own cigaratte in a far less dramatic manner, content to crush it with his shoe. "I suppose that there's no point in asking how you can be so sure", he mused out loud. Somehow he managed to keep his tone detached. Years of good practice.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Was the man shaking, just a little? His younger brother's jawline was so tight that it had to hurt. "She fought for him, Mycroft." That was the whole problem of it, wasn't it?

Mycroft looked at his brother. Really looked. And once more he saw the little boy that he could still distinctly remember. The one who cried and shouted for his mother. The one who couldn't understand why he'd been abandoned in such a way. Back then he fought so very hard to protect Sherlock's innocence. Yet somehow it all came to this.

Sherlock was the only one who never gave up, not really, and this was what it cost him.

Mycroft sighed. His shoulders slumped with a bizarre sense of defeat and weakness. "Diana Reid was a very sick woman. Her decisions… She had very little control over them." Subconsciously his hand went to a scar that'd mar his leg for the rest of his life.

Sherlock snorted. Like the man had just heard a particularly bad joke. "So now you're the one defending her?"

Mycroft sighed solely because groaning would've been beneath him. "Please, Sherlock. One musn't speak ill of the dead. Mommy taught us better than that."  
Sherlock's eyes were sharper than any blade in the world as they clashed with his. Full of desperate fury that should've belonged to a injured wild animal. "Which one?" the detective spat out.

Mycroft looked up once more just as the rain finally began to fall. Moisture filled his eyes. "Both", he stated in a voice that didn't sound like his. He then took a deep breath. Detached himself. Hardened his heart. He had things to do, a brother to protect. He began to leave, his umbrella's aggressive swing being the only sing of the turmoil inside. "Now, I have to catch a flight to Las Vegas."

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him even without looking. "You're going to her funeral." It wasn't a question. Perhaps rather an accusation.

"Yes", Mycroft affirmed, not letting his brother's tone wound him. "Of course I am. And perhaps you should come as well."

Sherlock snorted. "Why would I want to do that? I don't even know her."

Those words stung far worse and deeper than Mycroft could fully process. His jaw clenched. "Well, isn't that just another reason to attend? Besides, we have the case of a potential brother to solve." He knew Sherlock well enough to deduce that his words were already enough of a bait. But he decided not to chance anything. "It might also answer the question that's been haunting you almost all your life."

There was a brief pause. The tension in the air could've been sliced by a knife. "Well, since you seem to imagine that you know me better than I know myself, do humor me. What would that question be?"

"'Why'." And he knew that Sherlock wouldn't refuse. "The jet takes off in six hours and eighteen minutes. John will be there waiting." Well, just in case all else failed having John involved would certainly do the trick.

* * *

Spencer, who'd been staring at his cell phone ever since Sherlock hung up on him, eventually took a very deep, uneven breath and buried his face into his hands. His breaths were loud and laboured but at very least he wasn't sobbing.

He didn't dare to start because if he did…

There was a soft knock that barely managed to drag him out of those thoughts. "Spencer?" Jennifer Jareau blinked twice at the sight she discovered upon entering, then sighed. "Oh…"

Spencer knew that the room looked like a bomb had gone off there. Unsent letters and cards… They were everywhere.

Spencer focused on the pieces of paper because he couldn't face his friend's sympathy. Not when he was barely holding it together. "Until now… I always imagined that Charles and William…" He cleared his throat when his voice threatened to break. "I thought that they were… all inside mom's head. A part of her illness." He wiped at his eyes roughly. "All those years she… She kept trying to tell me but… I always thought…"

All her longing… All her pain… He'd had no idea. He'd never paused, for even a second, to consider that perhaps his brothers weren't a trick of her head.

"Stop that, right now." JJ's hand was gentle but firm when she laid it to his shoulder. "There was no way you could've known."

"What if I did? On some level." Painful memories flashed through Spencer's head. Each of them stinging hellishly. "Sometimes… Sometimes she looked at me and her eyes… It was like she wasn't really seeing me. And… She called me Will, a few times." He swallowed hard. "I thought that she was hallucinating. Or missing dad." Were her missing sons all she saw when looking at him? Did she ever wish that…?

His train of thought, however, derailed spectacularly when all of a sudden a pair of arms wrapped around him. Folding him into a firm and tender hug. He emitted a small, slightly moist squeak of surprise, his arms flailing for a couple of seconds until he slowly melted into the embrace. His eyes stung and he had to grit his teeth together to keep tears from overflowing.

"You were thinking too much", JJ answered his unvoiced question. "And it looked like you needed a good hug. So let me."

Spencer couldn't bring himself to say 'no'. Didn't even really want to. So he rested his forehead against her shoulder, trying to salvage some dignity with hiding his face, and let her hold soothe down some of the ache. Even if only momentarily.

The moment lasted until Spencer's cell phone announced a new text message. He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly several times before feeling composed enough to read it. The words he found made his head spin a little.

'_I believe that a family reunion is in oder._

_Mycroft Holmes_'

* * *

TBC

A/N: Oh dear, we're close to THE meeting, now. We'll see how that goes… (grins) But seriously, those poor brothers! They've had it REALLY rough and they still are. Let's hope there'll be some sunshine and comfort soon.

Soooo… Any good, at all? Deletion material? The vote is yours! There's a box down below, waiting to hear your opinion… (Oh, c'mon, I'm NOT hinting anything!)

Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!

* * *

**who-wants-to-know**: You're very welcome, too! The pleasure's definitely all mine.

How will they react indeed?! John, the brothers' adoptive parents, Spencer's team… And how will the meeting go? Because there's bound to be some rumble when these three slightly messed up souls meet one another…

I'm THRILLED to hear that you enjoyed the chapter! Guess what? I was already planning on making those flashbacks a regular thing. So, I'm very glad that you seem to enjoy them! What can I say? I'm a sucker for typing those two as kids.

The brothers are so adorable, pretending that they don't care although they obviously do, deeply. (smiles fondly) I just couldn't resist including that line.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	4. A British Inquisition

A/N: It's weeeeeeeeeekend! And we all know what that means. (grins with excitement) BUT, first things first…

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for all the reviews and love this story has received! I'm seriously baffled here. You… are… AMAZING! (HUGS)

Awkay, because stalling is a nasty habit… Let's ROCK! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

A British Inquisition

* * *

/ _At the age of eight Sherlock didn't sleep any better than he would as an adult. That's why it was no miracle that he woke up to the bizarre noises on that October morning. He frowned, instantly coming to a conclusion that it wasn't his alarm clock that alerted him. It was, however, six thirty on a school morning and he couldn't hear Mycroft's voice._

_His brother never slept past five thirty on school mornings._

_That fact alarmed Sherlock much further than the noises he heard. Shushed, quite obviously panicked words. Hurried steps. Stiffled sobs. He was out of the bed so fast that it made him feel a little dizzy and on his way to investigate._

_Sherlock never made it all the way to Mycroft's room before Mr. Holmes was blocking his path. Why were there tears in the man's eyes? "Don't go there, okay? Let's go back to your room."_

_Panic swell in Sherlock's chest until he felt like he was about to burst. He swallowed convulsively, his far too mature eyes seeking and seeing more than they should've. "What did you do to him?" he cried out. In a different state of mind he might've been embarrassed by the despair that filled his tone. As it was he didn't even notice. He took a defiant step forward, only to be stopped by a pair of firm yet tender arms. "Let go of me! What did you do to Mycroft? I want to see my brother!"_

_Mr. Holmes swallowed thickly, looking right at him although it didn't seem to be easy. __"Mycroft… __He's unwell right now. But help is on the way." The man pulled him into a embrace. "He'll be okay, Sherlock. I promise. It'll be okay."_

_Sherlock felt like he was suffocating and the tight hug didn't improve the sensation. Tears filled his eyes and began to roll before he could stop it. He was, after all, only eight, confused and terrified out of his mind._

_This wasn't the parent whose comfort he wanted. But he needed this embrace so badly that he couldn't refuse it. And so Sherlock buried his face into his adoptive father's shoulder to hide his shame and trembled to the core of his being from soundless sobs._

_It was all a bit blurry from there. When the paramedics came Mr. Holmes made sure that Sherlock didn't get anywhere near close enough to see what was going on. It filled the child with fury and he howled out his rage. Couldn't they understand that he needed to see? That he had to know? That he needed to make sure…?_

_It was late afternoon before Mr. Holmes deemed him calm enough to be taken to see Mycroft. It was a state of mind Sherlock only reached with gritting his teeth and counting prime numbers in his head. The hospital was horrible and reeked far too much of death to the child. He wanted to get out but he wasn't planning on leaving his brother behind._

_Sherlock didn't know what he expected. But when the door of Mycroft's hospital room opened the first thing he saw was their adoptive mother, who was wiping away tears and shaking uncontrollably. Then he noticed the grim faced doctor who couldn't be past his early thirties. "… recommend a different therapist… specialized in…"_

_And then, of course, Sherlock saw Mycroft. His brother was very pale but as hard as the younger one's frantic eyes searched he couldn't spot any wounds or other injuries. The boy on the bed… was just Mycroft, the one he'd grown used to seeing. It was a huge relief but also confused him even further. Why was a hospital needed? Very cautiously, especially considering how intently he'd insisted on visiting, Sherlock took a couple of steps forward. "Are you ill?" It was the only logical explanation._

_His voice managed to startle the three of them. Very quickly and with a unsteady hand their adoptive mother wiped away the last of her tears. The doctor cleared his throat and shifted with clearly visible discomfort. Mycroft looked away, appearing oddly embarrassed. As though being ill would've been something to be ashamed of._

_Mr. Holmes gulped loudly. The man's eyes shone with moisture and the man blinked quickly. "Why don't we, uh… talk outside?"_

_The adults left and for a moment irritation flared in Sherlock's mind. He didn't need to be coddled, especially when it came to his brother! But at the moment he had far more important matters to focus on._

_For a moment neither of the brothers was quite sure what to do. Then, even more slowly than he entered, Sherlock approached and took what he considered his rightful place on Mycroft's bedside. The bigger boy shifted, giving him room without a thought. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you alright?" He knew that the answer was obvious. But he wanted to hear and believe the lie, desperately._

_"Of course." Mycroft stretched, appearing tired all of a sudden. "They'll realize it soon and have me discharged."_

_Sherlock nodded. "Good. This place is boring." He lay down, his eyes focusing on a darker spot of the ceiling. It looked like a spider. "Tell me a story." Sure, it was childish. But he needed the distraction._

_Mycroft chuckled. It sounded comfortingly honest. "Aren't you a bit old for those?" The boy, however, relented quickly. "Fine. The pirate one again?"_

_Three days later, while Mycroft was still in the hospital, Sherlock's adoptive parents took him to a animal shelter and they adopted a dog that became named Redbeard._ /

* * *

/ _In the meantime Spencer, who was barely even four years old, woke up from a horrible nightmare to his own scream. He sat up, panting with his whole body covered in cold sweat. "MOMMY!"_

_But no one answered. In fact, the whole house sounded empty. The only noises he heard came from the backyard. Spencer's eyes widened and a brand new wave of terror flowed through him when it began to sink in._

_The shouts… The smell of smoke… What…?_

_His mother's voice was the one that carried to his ears first. " … William's blanket!" She sounded furious and desperate. Spencer, of course, couldn't understand either emotion but their force terrified him. "You can't burn William's blanket!"_

_"Let go of that fantasy, Diana." His father's voice was a lot quieter but for some reason it scared Spencer even more than his mother's. "Those boys don't exist in our lives anymore. Just… Just let go of them already."_

_Spencer was too young to recognize the sound of a slap. Small mercies. "Never, ever talk about my sons like that! You never fought for them but I'm not letting you steal them from me!"_

_Spencer was upset, scared and miserable. But how was he supposed to seek comfort from those two adults when the vicious words kept flowing on and on? So he curled to his side with tears running down his cheeks and lay very still, with the shouting as his only lullaby._ /

* * *

There was a hilariously serious look on John's face while he stared at Mary's stomach, one hand pressed tenderly against the swell. "I have to go and babysit your git of a goddad. But I promise that I'll be here right on time to meet you. Even the British Government wouldn't be able to keep me away." The baby responded with shifting under his hand. The doctor chuckled. "Oi, have a little faith in me!"

Mary laughed as well. "If it's any consolation, I don't think it's you she's doubting. Sometimes things just… don't go according to the plan with Sherlock involved."

John rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "Oh, I know. Vividly." Nonetheless he kissed her round belly to seal his promise. Captain John Watson didn't back down on promises. He then focused on Mary who was looking back at him with almost sad eyes. "Still, I will be back on time."

Mary kissed his head just before he began to stand. "I know that you'll try", she consoled him. There was a frown on her face. "So Sherlock and Mycroft didn't give you any information?"

John shook his head. Somehow that very bit was the most nerve-wrecking part of all. "Not a thing, except for the location." He frowned. "I'm probably going to need my gun."

Mary's eyebrow arched with suspicion. Some mirth danced on her face. "You're not going to use it on those two, are you?"

"I haven't decided yet", John admitted dryly and sighed heavily. He definitely didn't want to leave his wife when she might give birth any day. But Sherlock needed him.

Sometimes John got a very, very unpleasant feeling that there were three people in their marriadge.

Through the window they saw a very familiar sleek black car stopping right outside. John sighed again, trying to mentally prepare himself for whatever was to come. Yet somehow he got a feeling that he'd never quite manage that.

With a kiss to both Mary and their unborn daughter John took his bag, then headed outside. With entirely too much experience he climbed into the vehicle, fully expecting to see Anthea waiting. He blinked twice upon discovering Mycroft himself instead.

Only a few moments earlier John had a full rant prepared for the moment when he'd lay his eyes on the older Holmes. It died immediately into his throat when he took a good look at the man's face. Deducing in ways that had nothing to do with the Holmes logic. Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps Mycroft didn't ask him along only for Sherlock's sake. In the government official's world he might just be the closest thing to a friend. "Are you alright?"

For a second, just a single one, surprise was visible in Mycroft's eyes. The older brother's usual emotionless mask didn't slip into place as effortlessly as the man probably hoped. "Yes. Of course." That tone was more than enough to direct the conversation elsewhere. "Sherlock… needed a moment. He'll be waiting for us by the airstrip."

John nodded slowly, his head buzzing. What the hell was he getting himself into? "Right…" He took a deep breath and held it in for a long moment before unleashing it in a mighty puff of air. "So. Are you finally going to tell me where we're going?"

Mycroft looked at him. And although the man's face remained as unreadable as always there was something incredibly bare, almost haunted, in those eyes. "To my mother's funeral."

* * *

As day four after _IT_ turned into a evening Spencer found himself growing agitated. It warmed his heart that his BAU-family had decided to keep him company. But he didn't like the fact that he was keeping them from their homes and work. Aaron Hotchner had been quick and firm to announce that they had more than enough holidays to spare. The team was obviously determined to make sure that Spencer would have all the support he needed. But as much as he adored his friends the constant attention and company were beginning to feel suffocating. He couldn't mourn properly with all of them watching, worrying, trying to get him to open up and, as much as they hated it and trusted him, looking for signs of cravings. They meant well but Spencer had always been a private person and he would've wanted to grieve alone.

Shooting the walls, unfortunately, wasn't an option. Nor was screaming at the top of his lungs. So Spencer did the third best thing.

He hid into the bathroom and made sure to lock the door, then drew a nice, warm bath. Such that made him relax, just a little bit, as soon as he slid into the water. Without much of conscious thought he allowed himself to sink under, let the warmth fold him to its embrace. The second he closed his eyes the memories began.

* * *

/ _Through the water he saw his mother's face looming up above. There was a warm smile on her face when he surfaced. "Come here, you little killer whale. The water's already turning cold."_

_Spencer pouted with the skill of any six-year-old. He didn't want to, even if his teeth were chattering. "But mommy…!"_

_She grinned. "I'll tell you a secret." She leaned closer. "There's some hot chocolate with marshmallows downstairs. It might still be warm if you come out now."_

_Instantly Spencer crawled out, succeeding in splashing a large amount of water on his mother. She didn't mind. They were both giggling while she helped him towel himself and get dressed._ /

* * *

Underneath the water Spencer squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as he could. Tears mixed effortlessly into the liquid around him. The only sign of the howl he finally unleashed were the bubbles rising towards the surface.

* * *

During the drive to the private, top secret airstrip John took in with sheer disbelief everything Mycroft was revealing. That the brothers had been taken away from a mentally unstable mother. That they hadn't heard from her since. And that they had a third brother.

For a second, two, John could only stare. "What?" escaped at last. Under different circumstances his tone might've sounded highly amusing.

Mycroft stared through the car's window, seemingly focused on the world flashing by although his eyes were clearly watching something else entirely. "When we caught the first signs of Moriarty I used some… contacts to erase all traces that might've led him to her trails. That was when I found out about her third child." The man swallowed like there'd been a bad taste in his mouth. "Until now I imagined that he hadn't grown up with her, either."

John was still shocked by this new bit of information. But his head was already whirring busily towards other bits. His eyebrow arched. "And you didn't look any further into it? Ever?" That didn't sound like Mycroft. The man was the definition of precision. But then the obvious answer occurred to him.

Perhaps that was the one thing Mycroft, a man who seemed to know everything, didn't want to know. It was one thing to be taken away from parents. It was another matter altogether to find out that someone else had been allowed to stay.

The silence in the car was heavy with both of them lingering deep in their thoughts. In the end John sighed before focusing on the other man once more. At that very moment he saw a lot of things a great deal more clearly. "I'm sorry, Mycroft." And he meant it, from the bottom of his heart.

Mycroft's face had moulded back into that infuriating, unreadable mask. The man folded his arms. "Not half as sorry as I am."

Nothing more needed to be said. As they reached the air strip John discovered that Mycroft had been right. Sherlock was already there, standing next to the awaiting jet like a picture of more or less helpless rage. A pair of razor sharp eyes nailed on Mycroft almost instantly. Did they appear a little bloodshot? "Feel free to blackmail me into coming along. But John has no part in any of this", the detective hissed.

John wasn't hurt by those biting words. Instead he took a step closer. "Sherlock, I'm…"

But the younger brother clearly wasn't in the mood to listen. Before another syllable fell through John's lips the man turned around sharply and marched into the jet, his coat billowing furiously behind him. The doctor sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. "He isn't going to make this easy, is he?"

"Of course he isn't." Mycroft steeled himself for a second, then began to move as well. "So, are you coming along?"

It was almost terrifying how clearly John knew that there was only one answer in his head. "Yes, of course." He couldn't help wondering just what he was getting himself into.

* * *

To the rest of the BAU-team it felt incredibly weird and uncomfortable to be in the house where Spencer spent his childhood. They had no idea why the young genius' father had chosen to maintain ownership over it. Had the man honestly been hoping that Diana might come back home one day? Or that Spencer would? They could get very well why Diana couldn't and Spencer wouldn't.

Despite being full of warm colors the house felt hollow, somehow. And not only because it'd been mostly uninhabited for far too many years. Now, having heard about Spencer's two brothers, they understood to some extend what that missing part was.

Aside those letters and cards that Diana had written, which had been found hidden under her bed in her hospital room, there wasn't a trace of the lost boys. No photographs, toys, clothes or artwork. It was like every sign of their existence had been erased. It was no wonder that Spencer had never suspected a thing.

"I just… I don't understand it", Penelope admitted while fixing a mug of coffee for Spencer. "The boys… They had a father, too. Why didn't William raise them alone?"

Derek stiffled a yawn while taking another sip of water. It'd been a very exhausting four days for all of them. "We're talking about the same guy who left a ten-year-old alone with a schizophrenic mother." They both looked towards the room's doorway when Alex Blake walked in with a sad look on her face. "How's he doing?" Derek inquired instantly.

Alex's expression spoke everything necessary. "Hanging in there. He just washed up." She looked around. "Where are the others?"

"Rossi's grocery shopping. He said something about us all needing some real food. Hotch and JJ are calling home." Derek drummed restlessly with his fingers, looking up when the floorboards above him sighed softly. They all knew that Spencer's old room was right there. "Maybe I should go and talk with him."

Penelope placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Just… Give him a moment. I think we've been smothering him a bit."

With some amusement Alex took in the sight of the seventy-eight cookies that Penelope had already baked as stress relief. She took one of them, letting to homey taste calm her fried nerves. "So… His brothers are on their way here?" The whole thought seemed surreal and they could only imagine what it felt like to Spencer. It was like straight out of a soap opera.

The other two nodded. "I wonder what they look like", Alex admitted, gulping down the last of the cookie. "Do you think they'll be anything like Reid?"

Penelope's eyes flashed with what seemed close to excitement. "Well, I've been doing some Googling." She moved towards her laptop, which had been forgotten to the kitchen table in the middle of all the hassle. With fast fingers she typed some search words. "I wasn't able to find any pictures of Mycroft. But this… is Sherlock. I ran into his name a while ago."

Curious, the others leaned forward to catch a glimpse. A grin made its way to Alex's face. "Well, how about that…"

Penelope grinned as well and fixed her glasses. "Yeah. I can see the family resemblance too, now."

Derek rolled his eyes although one corner of his lips twitched. He then looked at the picture as well, at the man they'd meet very soon. He listened to Penelope's explanation with only half an ear. "He's helped the police solve a few crimes. He's a private detective or something like that."

"A consulting detective, actually. The only one in the world. I invented the job."

Startled, they spun around to see two men standing close to the doorway. Both of them had solemn looks on their faces. It didn't take the IQ of a genius to figure out who they were.

Soon enough a third, smaller man barged in, followed closely by Aaron. "Are you two insane?" the stranger exclaimed. "Breaking and entry is a crime! Did you know that?" It wasn't until then the man seemed to notice the rest of them and shifted with discomfort. "I'm, uh… Sorry. I'm Dr. John Watson."

Penelope nodded. Despite the circumstances her eyes shone, just a little bit. "I know. I've been following your blog for a while, now."

A round of introductions followed, which didn't lessen the tension lingering in the room at all. Nor did the steps that appeared to the scene with a audible amount of hesitation. And all of a sudden Spencer was the centre of very much unwanted attention. With his hair wet, face pale and wearing a much too big shirt the man appeared even younger and a lot more fragile than usual.

Time itself seemed to freeze while the brothers stared at each other. Deducing and profiling. A flood of memories, old scars and bitterness spinning madly in the space separating them.

In the end Spencer took a deep breath and balled his fists. Like someone preparing for a battle. "So. You came for the funeral."

Sherlock's eyes flashed hazardously. "I don't know what Mycroft lied to you but I don't care about the funeral." The tall Brit took a step forward, causing Derek to twitch as well. "You have letters and postcards that belong to me. I want to see them."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Ooooooooooh brother…? (winces, then grins) Hey, that actually fits!

So, the brothers have found each other. But oh no, it's NOT going to be a smooth sailing. Wounds from the past will be torn wide open while they try and get used to one another. The BAU-team and John are in for a tough babysitting chore…

Until next time, folks! I REALLY hope that I'll c ya all there.

Take care!


	5. Sore Spots

A/N: Ah, it's time for a yet another weekend update. (grins and rubs hands together) First things first, though!

THANK YOU, so very much, for your lovely reviews, listings and love! It still baffles me and warms my heart that this story has found so many friends. I really hope that you'll enjoy what's to come just as much.

Awkay, because stalling isn't good manners… Let's go! Get ready for a bumpy ride…

* * *

Sore Spots

* * *

/ _When Mycroft was discharged from the hospital after several weeks everyone seemed to act like nothing was wrong around Sherlock. The younger brother couldn't bring himself to mind much. He had his brother back. He had Redbeard. And for a while everything seemed to be alright. The child even went as far as coming to a realization that he was happy. Even the Holmes' felt tolerable, although the amount of attention and affection they showered him with was overwhelming. Their house began to feel like a home. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with Mycroft, either. It'd always be Sherlock's best kept secret that as an adult, he'd never fully forgive himself for being so short-sighted._

_Three years passed by in that strange, surreal calm. Until their adoptive parents received a phone-call that reeled everything into a state of chaos. Sherlock managed to overhear that his brother had collapsed at school, he even heard half murmured, half sobbed talking of a therapist. And the whole world seemed to be tilting on its axis._

_This time Mycroft wasn't conscious when Sherlock entered his older brother's hospital room. It took over two days before the boy opened his eyes to the world again. Those forty-eight hours, sixteen minutes and forty-four seconds became one of the worst waken nightmares in Sherlock's entire life, although he'd never admit it to a soul._

_When Mycroft did wake up, it was to the sight of a sandwich and Shrelock's bloodshot, nearly pleading eyes waiting for him. The boy winced and shifted with discomfort. "Sherlock…" He licked his lips. Why did his voice sound so strange? "I can't…"_

_Sherlock interrupted him with a firm shake of a head. "You'll eat it, Mycroft. They… They said that you need to start eating."_

_Mycroft sighed and looked away. How to explain…? "It's not that simple."_

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed, came close to overflowing. "Shut up, you selfish idiot!" It was desperate and furious all at once. __"I'm… __I'm not letting you leave me, too! So eat or I'll make you."_

_Mycroft stared at his brother, trying to decide if the younger one was serious. He was. So, although it made him feel intensely sick almost immediately, Mycroft took a bite of the sandwich. And while he'd tried to remain strong for Sherlock it was the first time he fought for his brother._ /

* * *

The amount of letters and cards was baffling. There was one for every birthday and Christmas. One agonizingly painful one for every anniversary of their time apart. No matter how deep in her own world Diana might've been she never missed a single one. Despite all the years that flew by she never stopped thinking about her lost boys, for even a single day.

And then there was a letter that had Sherlock's name written on the envelope. It was different from the rest, a little wrinkled and battered from the test of time. Were those tear stains on it? Sherlock made sure that Spencer and Mycroft were focused on something else before opening it. His whole body turned cold from what he found and his legs became so weak that it was a small miracle they didn't give out.

It was an article about his faked death. Describing how the great Hat Detective took his own life after becoming the suspect of a massive amount of horrible crimes. Something had smudged the ink, making a lot of the words incomprehensible. Sherlock didn't have to wonder long what that something was. To the bottom of the article she'd written in a desperate, unsteady handwriting. The words ached Sherlock's supposedly nonexistent heart.

'_You're my little boy, Will. And I know that you're not gone. A mother knows. So be safe and come back home soon. You'll be in my thoughts every second of every single day. I love you._'

The surge that went through Sherlock was almost more than he could take. Too much, all of it. The weight of her pain, combined with his own…

She was _never_ supposed to find out about this, she should've never known…

"Are you okay?" There was sincere concern on Spencer's face. "You look a little pale."

Sherlock gritted his teeth to keep the worst of the venom from spewing out. He hid the letter as quickly as he could, not wanting it to be seen by anyone else. "Yes. Fine."

Spencer sighed, appearing even more tired than before. "Look… I understand how you…"

Sherlock's eyes flashed. And that was the only warning before the hurricane. "… how I feel? No, you don't." It was the hiss of a attacking snake. "She fought for you. She kept you. You got to grow up with her and know her. So no, you have no idea how I'm feeling right now."

That, apparently, crossed a line. "She begged dad to take me away, too. And… There are still days when I hate him for not doing that." Spencer moved so quickly that it was baffling, crowding Sherlock's personal space. Both Brits tensed up, prepared for a punch that never came. Spencer's eyes were ablaze. "Do you imagine that it was easy, growing up with her?" the agent hissed. "Coming home from school, fearing how she'd be? If she'd done or do something horrible? To have her coming to get me home from school, screaming that the government was after us, that we had to hurry or they'd take me away, too? To love her enough to fear that they would? To face the humiliation and fear? To…" The younger man swallowed hard. For a moment his eyes shimmered but the threatening tears were blinked back stubbornly. "And the worst part… And the worst part was that sometimes I actually wished that they'd come and take me away. So I'd get a different mom, a proper mom. But they never came and that was the life I lived until I was eighteen."

Sherlock's jawline tightened while the middle brother breathed hard. Were those tears shining in the room's painfully bright light? "At least you have memories of her", the detective growled. "All I have is the scent of her cigarettes and a memory of how the neighborhood's children were told not to come to our house. I can't even remember her face." The man seemed to be dangerously close to losing control. He was shaking down to the core of his being. "At least you know that she existed. Sometimes I thought that I imagined her." With that he spun around and stormed out of the room before the other two could react in any way.

Spencer stared at the room's doorway with wild eyes, his pupils blown wide from adrenaline and breathing erratically. Feeling guilty, furious, lost, sad and a million other things all at once.

"Well, then…" There was a small, wry smile on Mycroft's face. "Welcome to the family, I suppose."

* * *

A very tense, nervous silence lingered in the room where the rest of the crew waited for the brothers. The Reids had announced, with a quite clear wording, that they'd go through the cards and letters Diana left behind with just the three of them. The others understood better than well, with all the family secrets that'd already come out. It had to be overwhelming on them.

John had done his best to tell the team everything he could without breaking any unspoken promises. About the British brothers' chosen careers, that their adoptive parents seemed like lovely people. This highly protective team needed to know that Sherlock and Mycroft weren't the sociopaths they liked to be seen as. That they were two very much feeling people grieving the loss of their birth mother just as much as much Spencer was. That although they may be a hazard to anyone's sanity they were no threat to the youngest teammember's safety.

Clearly he wasn't making as much progress as he'd hoped. The agents kept stealing glances towards where the brothers had disappeared. All of a sudden John was entirely too aware of the fact that they were all armed and trained. "They've been too quiet", Aaron pointed out, his eyebrows furrowing.

David nodded with firm agreement. "It's like with kids. You know that there's something fishy going on when they're too quiet."

John shook his head, a morose look appearing to his face. He could feel a mighty headache building up. "Those two are worse than any brat I've ever met", he deadpanned with a sigh. "Maybe we should go and make sure…"

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. Because just then a very familiar figure in a long, black coat stormed down the stairs and past their stunned, alarmed group. There was a look that gave no positive promises on the man's face. "Sherlock?" John, unsurprisingly, got no reply. "Sherlock, what…?" But the house's door slammed closed.

Derek frowned. The man had already made a move towards where the remaining brothers were. "What the hell was that all about?"

John took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll go after that one. You go and… check the damage."

John assumed that he'd have to look for Sherlock for a really long time. He assumed incorrectly. The second he stepped out of the house he froze at the sight of the detective leaning against the wall. The tall Brit seemed unharmed, most likely owing to Spencer's amazing level of self control. But the younger man's breathing pattern was far from healthy and those fists were squeezed so tightly that knuckles had turned white. The paleness on the detective's face also didn't look promising. Nor did the look in those eyes.

John frowned, taking a small step closer. "Sherlock?" The only reaction he got was a small, most likely involuntary twitch. "You alright?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth so hard that John heard it. The man refused to look at him while speaking almost inaudibly. "Get me away from here." It sounded harsh and commanding but it was definitely the closest thing to a plea the man would ever come.

For a few moments John stared, wondering with a degree of worry just what took place behind the closed door. In the end he nodded slowly, realizing that it was the only thing he could do. "Okay. Okay." He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and tugged lightly. "Let's go then, yeah? A walk will do us good."

It was chilling that Sherlock spat out no objections while moving, somehow simultaneously walking ahead of him and following him like a shadow.

* * *

The moment Derek found Spencer he knew better than to offer the coffee Penelope had prepared for the genius. Instead he placed the mug to a small table nearby and entered the bathroom where Spencer sat beside the toilet, knees drawn tightly to his chest. The younger man's eyes were hazy, as though he was wandering in some world of his own. There was a rather disgusting smell in the air.

Derek was sure that he'd gone unnoticed until Spencer gulped loudly and looked at him. The man winced. "I… just threw up."

Derek nodded slowly. What was he supposed to say to that? "Are you feeling better now?" Well, that sounded logical enough.

Spencer unleashed a shaky, brief chuckle. "Ask me again when my stomach's stopped making backflips." The genius then groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm still expecting to… I don't know. Maybe wake up."

Derek sighed. Oh, if only this was one of those things that Spencer could wake up from. He spent a long time contemplating his next move. Eventually he approached and sat to the other side of the toilet.

Spencer gave him a look that suggested the younger man questioned his sanity. "Morgan? What are you doing?"

Derek shrugged, doing his best to make it seem nonchalant. "What? It's going to be a long day. This seems like a good place to spend it."

Well, that succeeded in pulling an honest smile out of Spencer, no matter how short lived it was. The younger man sighed, leaning against the wall. "A grown man hiding in a bathroom… Isn't that a bit pathetic?"

Derek pretended thinking about it, then pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nah. The floor tiles are comfy. What's the harm in spending a few hours here?"

Spencer gave a sound of agreement. "Yeah, maybe a few hours. Or at least until I don't feel like punching one or both of my… _brothers_."

It was heartbreaking, all of it. But something about Spencer's nearly childish expression made one corner of Derek's lips twitch. "Now feels like a good time to tell you about when I almost broke Desi's nose…"

* * *

Mycroft stood frozen in a room that held a million traces of the past, staring at the space around him with slightly dazed eyes. The lights he'd flicked on shone on the layers upon layers of dust gathered everywhere. It was a sea of memories. But as it turned out not even a single one of them was about him or Sherlock.

On the doorframe faded ink could be seen where his father had marked Spencer's growing height twice a year. To think that back then, in a different life, there was a similar on the doorframe of his own room. He was so proud of every little sign of progress…

Although the room was mostly an office there were photographs. Of William and Diana, of Spencer. Several toys that Mycroft couldn't recall were still on the floor, lost and abandoned. Mycroft couldn't resist wondering what became of his toys, especially of the teddy bear that he used to cherish as his greatest treasure. The only signs in the whole house proving that the Reids had more children were those letters that Diana had been forced to hide. It felt cruel and unfair. Or maybe it was a punishment for how Mycroft gave up on her.

Either way, it was like Charles Reid never even existed.

"Coffee?" The sudden voice managed to catch him off guard. Turning his head sharply he found Penelope's apologetic face. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." She offered a steaming mug towards him. "You look like you could use some coffee. I… didn't know if you use sugar or cream…"

"It's fine", he interrupted her, accepting the offering. "Thank you." He was a government official, after all. Mind the manners.

The silence that folded around them was comfortable, so much so that Mycroft barely even noticed it. Memories whispered to him every single time a shadow moved. This time they weren't the kindest ones.

Once again it was Penelope's voice that pulled him back to the present. "So… You're a government official, huh?" She continued at his brief, guarded nod. "Must be exciting."

Mycroft fought back the urge to wince. At least she was avoiding the horrific 'I'm so sorry for your loss' and 'if there's anything you need' clichés. "Not really", he stated, taking a sip of the coffee. It wasn't as sharp as his usual but it'd do. "Mostly it's sitting in tedious meetings with people only capable of tolerating each other for an hour or two at a time."

"And that's why you carry a gun in a ankle holster?"

Mycroft's eyebrow bounced up with genuine surprise. Someone might've said that he was impressed. Well, this certainly solidified his theory that she was far more than a office girl. He shrugged. "I don't like surprises."

Penelope gave him a look of sympathy and understanding. Clearly seeing far more than she should've. "Surprises like a second brother who grew up with the mother you were taken away from?" Obviously something changed on his face despite his best attempts because she sighed, the realization in her eyes deepening. "Look, Mycroft…"

Highly likely interrupting something that Mycroft didn't want to hear, his cell-phone began to ring. He gave her his best 'we're _not_ going to continue this later' look. "I'll have to take this." He lifted the still almost full mug a little. "Thank you, for the coffee." She barely had the time to leave the room before he'd already closed the door.

* * *

A new day was dawning. But in a house that was quickly becoming crowded three brothers were only just finding rest. Or trying to.

In a room where his mother slept once upon a time Spencer lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. A new crack, formed by years of lacked care, ran across the sunflower his mother painted there in another life. His own laughter echoed in the memory of watching her at work. Now, if he looked closely, he saw the initials of three names on the petals. Now, as an adult, he also recognized the pain that lingered in his smiling mother's eyes on that day. And he didn't know what to think about anything anymore.

In Spencer's old room, which he now shared with John, Sherlock listened to the doctor grunting softly in his sleep. He felt a much too familiar tingle underneath his skin and shifted restlessly, futilely trying to make it go away. And although he was in a house that belonged to his own birth mother even a single cell in his body didn't feel like there was anything left for him there, despite all those words of love he read. Perhaps it was befitting. Hadn't his role in Diana Reid's life been replaced a long time ago?

Leaning against a sink in the bathroom Mycroft splashed some cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth, trying to get rid of the horrible taste. Or perhaps of the horrible memories. Unfortunately neither could be washed away. In the end he left the room, pointedly avoiding meeting his own reflection, and returned to the couch JJ made ready for him.

Unaware of each other's motions the three brothers curled up to identical positions, each facing a wall, and hoped against all reason that they'd somehow manage to wake up from the nightmare.

* * *

William Reid wasn't entirely sure how many drinks he'd poured down his throat by the time there was a knock on the door of his office. "Uh, sir…?" His secretary, a quite lovely young woman named Melody Williams, sounded oddly hesitant. "Is this a bad time?"

William took a deep breath to swallow down his honest answer. His hand, as unsteady as it was, moved stunningly quickly to hide the empty glass. "Of course not. What is it?"

There was a bizarre expression on Melody's face. She ran a nervous hand through her long, red hair. "Your son… He was just spotted here in Las Vegas."

William stared for a moment, wondering if his drunken head was missing something. "Of course Spencer is here. I knew that."

Melody shook her head. "Not Spencer. I was talking about your other son."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Those poor boys! They're seriously having a rough time. (winces) We'll see if William manages to make it even worse… Or perhaps he'll be able to give answers.

Sooooo… Thoughts? Comments? PLEASE, do leave a note on the box below! I'd LOVE to hear from you.

I've reeeeeally gotta get going now. Until next time, folks! I truly hope that I'll see you all then.

Take care!


	6. The Fine Art of Running Away

A/N: It's weekend and I'm back with a yet another chapter. Yay? BUT, before getting to that one…

THANK YOU, a million times over, for that flood of fantastic reviews, listings and love this story's received! Never in a million years would I have imagined this to make so many friends. (BEAMS) Thank you!

Awkay, before I get all over sentimental… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy round six. (smirks)

* * *

The Fine Art of Running Away Without Tripping

* * *

/ _Mycroft fought on. Most of the time it was an uphill battle but the older brother kept hanging on with tooth and nail. Sherlock made sure of it. Years flew by and slowly yet surely Sherlock began to hope that maybe, just maybe, the bottom wouldn't drop from his world this time. But then came the day that dawns in the life of every single child growing up to adulthood._

_Sherlock frowned when he came home from school to discover that this time Redbeard wasn't there to greet him. "Redbeard? Where are you?" He whistled, which usually worked like magic. Not this time. His stomach knotted when there wasn't a trace of his best friend. "Come on, boy. What are you playing at?"_

_A feeling of dread swelling inside, Sherlock made his way towards his room. His much loved dog was there, lay on the canine's own bed. Redbeard's tail began to wag with excitement the second the dog saw him but there was no other reaction._

_Sherlock frowned, moving to scratch his friend from behind the ear. His efforts earned a groan of appreciation. "Now what's this all about, huh? Are you getting lazy?" Of course he knew, deep down, that such wasn't the case. But he wasn't about to admit the truth even to himself._

_Redbeard was getting old._

_He was about to start with math homework when Mycroft appeared to the room's doorway. Sherlock frowned immediately. "What's wrong?"_

_Mycroft hesitated for a second, which alone was worrying. Then entered, showing him a large envelope. "I… just found out that I was accepted to a university."_

_At first Sherlock grinned. Then his eyes fell on the envelope, took in the university's name. The realization hit like a bullet._

_Sherlock swallowed hard. And despite all his knowledge and intelligence his brain was suddenly washed completely blank. "What… about those schools closer to home? I heard you and mommy talking about them." He stared at the papers because in his current state of mind he wasn't even capable of glaring. "Why would you go all the way there? I can't even come and visit you." It was like Mycroft was running away and his brother had never run away from anything._

_Mycroft sighed heavily and looked away. It was impossible to read to look on the older boy's face. "Because… Sherlock, I need to get away from here."_

_Someone else might've understood. Might've seen the trapped look in those downcast eyes, or how Mycroft's shirt was hanging on him. But Sherlock was thirteen and had already been abandoned by his parents. This, the last member of his birth family leaving him… This was too much._

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed furiously against the tears that wanted to crawl out. "Get out", he growled. He barely even noticed how tight his throat had become._

_Mycroft sighed loudly. Even shifted, as though touching him would've been a good idea. "Sherlock…"_

_"Get the hell out of my room!"_

_Mycroft's mouth opened. But in that very moment no words would've made any difference. And so, with a very rare air of defeat, the older brother left the room. It wasn't until the door closed Sherlock finally allowed the bitter tears to come._

_At the end of the summer Myrcroft left. He lingered behind Sherlock's firmly closed door before finally giving in and leaving the house, climbing into the car where their adoptive father was waiting. Through a window Sherlock watched the car disappeared, then shut the blinds._

_A month later Redbeard didn't wake up when Sherlock went to greet his friend upon coming home from school._ /

* * *

/ _At around the same time Spencer was hiding underneath the stairs while his parents argued by the house's front door. "So you're really going to do this?" His mom was furious, no doubt about it, but there were also tears in her voice. "You're going to leave us?"_

_His father unleashed a incomprehensible sound. "I've seen where this is going once and… I can't, Diana. I'm not going to watch you pop out another kid that isn't mine."_

_Those words made Spencer shudder and he gasped loudly. Tears blurred his vision and he slammed a hand on his mouth to keep more sounds from coming. His whole small frame was trembling pitiably while those horrible words washed through it like a river of acid._

_Was that a sob? In the hurricane of emotions and thoughts it was hard to tell. "He's as much your son as he's mine and so is this child! William, you can't leave us like this!"_

_"I also can't continue this charade of a happy family any longer!" his father cried. "Waiting for these tiny moments when you're lucid… Fearing that Emily or Amy appear again… I can't do it!"_

_Spencer couldn't hold himself back although he knew that any answers would only bring more pain. And so, with every little bit of bravery he could muster, he came out of hiding. Somehow he managed to make his way to the adults although his knees felt dangerous weak._

_They both stared at him with open shock, clearly realizing what he'd heard. While tears rolled down Diana's cheeks William's face moulded into a horrible, almost blank wax mask. The silence was deafening._

_Spencer's mouth opened. But there too many questions, too many pleas, and all the words tangled in his head. "Dad…!"_

_For a child it was impossible to see how close to falling apart completely William was. Even more so to understand how the man could turn his back and just walk out. "Go to your room, Spencer."_

_That night, listening to the cries of his mom and the eventual return of a man who wasn't even his father, Spencer felt more alone than ever in his life. In the end he cried himself to sleep. By the time he woke up he'd deleted almost all of the evening before from his mind until a very unpleasant hypno therapy experiment._

_It was his father's fifth departure and three weeks later the man left for the last time. _/

* * *

For a few painfully long hours the brothers attempted to get some rest. They actually succeeded just a little bit, for a few minutes at a time. As the house began to fill up with noise and tension Sherlock found his way outside. He wasn't exactly surprised to discover that he wasn't the only one with such plans. Mycroft was already leaning against the house with a cigarette in hand, obviously deep in thought.

"You look a little rough", Sherlock announced while lighting a cigarette of his own. He didn't like the audible hint of concern that appeared to his tone. Infuriating, all of this… sentiment.

Mycroft scoffed, drawing in a long drag. "You flatter me, brother dear." There was a small pause. "Maybe we should've taken that hotel room, after all."

"Or maybe we should just go back home", Sherlock bit back. His hold on the cigarette tightened to a point where he damaged it. "This house… These people… Do you honestly think that we have any place here?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Of course we do. She was our mother, too." And somehow it was as simple as that.

Sherlock's eyebrow arched. He let his latest drag spin around in his mouth before unleashing it in a mighty puff. "What happened to sentiment being a chemical defect?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. It might've been to hide a smile. Or a sneeze. "Don't get smart. It's not your most appealing trait."

Sherlock snorted. The younger Brit seemed amused. "I don't aim to appeal."

Mycroft gave his brother a dry look. By the time he began to light another cigarette his hands were perfectly steady. "Unfortunately I know that better than well."

They smoked in a oddly companionable silence until a new voice spoke. "That's a horrible habit." How Spencer managed to sneak up on them was a mystery. There was a sharp, guarded look in the youngest brother's eyes. "Especially considering that you two are supposed to be geniuses."

For a few moments they sized up one another, all of them tense and more than willing to spew out some of the venom coursing through their veins. In the end it was Spencer who spoke. "I'm not interested in starting another fight." The man handed something towards Sherlock. "I just… came to give you this."

With a degree of, in his opinion, well deserved suspicion Sherlock accepted the offering. It took longer than it should've before his brain finally announced that it was a photograph. It took much longer before his chaotic head managed to recognize the face.

"You said that you can't even remember what she looked like." Spencer nodded towards the picture, fidgeting slightly from restrained emotions. "That's mom, two years ago. I… took it in the garden of her hospital. It was one of her lucid moments."

Sherlock stared at the picture, unable to look away although he would've wanted to. That woman and her smile… So familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Those eyes, watching over him. That mouth, singing a lullaby the lyrics of which he couldn't remember. Those arms holding him.

Finally, after what felt like a decade, Sherlock managed to look up to meet Spencer's eyes. He gulped, unsure how to proceed. "Why would you give me this?" It didn't sound even close to as stern and in control as he would've wanted but at the moment he didn't manage to care.

Spencer seemed to understand something that he didn't. Those hazel eyes softened, just a little. "Because I want you both to remember that she wasn't a bad person. And that she didn't just… abandon you." The agent wiped at his eyes. "She… She wasn't an easy person to live with. But… She did love you. Us all. Sometimes it's easy to forget." The American gathered himself with a single, long breath until finally focusing on them once more. "Now come inside. Dinner's ready and you're both expected to attend." With that as his final verdict Spencer spun around and began to walk away, hands shoved into his pockets.

"Not hungry", the two announced in almost perfect unison.

"Did that sound like a suggestion?"

* * *

The dinner wasn't exactly a pleasant affair. Or well, if any of them had been in the mood for humor it would've made an excellent comedy. The brothers doing their best to avoid as much as looking at each other, the rest of the team trying to fill the uncomfortable silence… In the end Spencer dashed away as he quickly as he could, yet not fast enough to disguise the fact that he'd barely had more than a couple of mouthfulls. As much as the rest of the BAU-family would've wanted to follow him they knew that he needed his space, at least for a little bit. Instead they turned their entire focus on the remaining brothers.

Sherlock, despite his loud protests, was roped into dish-duty. And like that hadn't been bad enough he discovered that he'd been cornered. As soon as JJ appeared with a kind smile and understanding eyes, to dry the dishes she claimed, he could deduce that she was in for a kill.

"All of this… It must be overwhelming on you", JJ pointed out. She gave him a long look that was exactly one point two seconds short of becoming intrusive. "Being pulled back into all of this, after spending almost all your life life away…"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed while he gritted his teeth painfully hard. He scrubbed a frying pan with enough force to make it hurt his hands. "Why would you care?"

JJ shrugged. Even the slightest bit in her body language didn't suggest that she would've been offended. "Because you're Spence's brother. And that makes you a part of the BAU-family as well."

Sherlock snorted. His hold on a plate was so hard that it was a small miracle he didn't fracture it. "I don't need a family."

JJ's eyes did harden, there. To an extend that was almost chilling. "No one can choose their family, Sherlock. Those made of blood or otherwise." Her gaze softened but only marginally. "I understand that this is the worst possible time for you two to meet Spence. But you're not worthy of even tenth of your reputation if you can't profile how much you need each other right now."

Sherlock focused intensely on the dishes. On keeping the infuriating searing sensation that took over his eyes at bay. "It's called deduction."

For a moment JJ stared at him. Then splashed some water on him purely unaccidentally. "Keep scrubbing." Her tone was almost understanding, free of any accusation and anger. "You missed a spot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept working, feeling slightly lighter than before.

* * *

Mycroft could feel someone observing him. He recognized the presence just seconds before Aaron spoke. "Are you looking for something?"

Mycroft gritted his teeth. Then decided that he'd have to answer something. "I'm not sure", he admitted reluctantly.

His eyes remained locked on the photographs. On the sight of his parents with another child that was supposed to be his brother. It was his family yet he knew nothing about it. All he'd learned about his brother was the man's name and chosen profession. And his parents, a sick woman who couldn't look after her children and a man who hadn't bothered to fight to keep his family together… What did he know about them either, really? How many of the memories in his head were a creation of his mind? He'd never get the chance to ask them, now.

Without noticing it Mycroft brought a hand to the scar marring his leg. A very much solid proof, that one. Even if a highly unpleasant one.

"I wasn't sure if I agreed when Spencer invited the two of you here." It felt like Aaron was looking at him. "But you deserve to be here. She was your mother, too. Just remember this." There was a threat in the air. "I'll change my mind if you make this all any harder on him."

Mycroft glanced towards the other. Half amused, half irritated. "Was that a threat, agent Hotchner?"

Aaron's eyes were steel hard and strangely knowing at the same time. "This team is the first real family he's had. And even though we've made our mistakes we look after our own." There was a pause while the two Alpha males sized up one another. "None of you has had it easy. But I don't think that your mother would want to see it ushering you against each other."

Mycroft gritted his teeth together, once again focusing on the photos. He couldn't help wondering what happened to those with him and Sherlock in them. Had they been burned? Turned into nothing but dust in the wind? "And how, exactly, do you expect us to accomplish that?" _One… brother calls me his arch nemesis and the other barely even knows my name._

"Maybe you could stop staring into the past." Aaron's gaze could be felt even without meeting it. "Because you haven't noticed something. Even though those two have every opportunity and permission to leave they're still here."

For a few moments Mycroft wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. Tedious, all of it. "Why do you imagine that is?"

"It's something that the three of you will have to figure out." As traces of constantly intensifying growling began to drift from the living room Aaron sighed heavily. "I'll have to go before Morgan actually punches Sherlock." The 'think about what I said' wasn't spoken but somehow lingered heavily. With that the unit chief took his leave.

Mycroft's gaze refused to budge from the photographs. From Spencer, who seemed around eight years old. From those eyes. All of a sudden he saw something eerily familiar. For the first time he began to wonder if they actually were related, after all.

* * *

Ever since he was a little boy Spencer was a fast runner. With everything there was haunting his steps he had to be. And after the tense dinner he did what he'd done very often in his childhood. He took off and ran, without noticing it even chose the route he used to take.

Everything that'd been slammed at him in less than a week kept echoing in his head mercilessly. His mom… His brothers…

Spencer picked up pace although he could already taste blood. Against all hope he wished that the added speed might be enough to snatch him away from his thoughts. But hard as he pushed his body he didn't manage to be faster than his furiously ticking brain.

In the end Spencer reached his limit. When his knees nearly folded on their own he leaned against a bench and panted, letting the heat of Las Vegas wrap around his aching muscles. When that wasn't enough to make the world stop spinning he sat down and buried his face into his hands. But nothing could delete the surreal reality.

Spencer had no idea how long he sat there, either too exhausted to move an inch or unwilling to go back. But in the end he dragged his aching, oddly heavy body back to his childhood home. Outside it John was finishing a phone call. "I just called my wife. And honestly, I needed a break", the doctor explained while pocketing his cell-phone. The man then offered a bottle of water towards him. "I had a feeling that you might need this."

Spencer accepted it gratefully. "Thanks", he murmured, taking a long, savouring sip. He then fidgeted, not exactly sure what to say or do. "So, uh… Where are the others?"

"Inside." John glanced towards the door with some well justified worry. "They've been awfully quiet for a while now. Soon I have to go in and make sure that they haven't offed each other." The doctor gave him a knowing, apologetic look. "Whatever he said to you… I'm sorry."

Spencer blinked once. Twice. "What are you talking about?"

John gave him a wry look. "It's Sherlock. If he's opened his mouth in your presence, especially in that mood, he's said something insulting."

One corner of Spencer's lips twitched, just a little bit. He moved with caution he couldn't quite understand and sat beside the Brit. The water tasted even better when he took a new sip. "We don't have to go inside yet, right?"

John gave him a glance that was so subtle it would've been easy to miss. The man then shook his head. "Why hurry? We'll hear the gunshots."

Spencer didn't notice the small, fleeting smile that passed by his face.

They lingered in a very comfortable silence for a while, both absorbed by their thoughts. In the end it was Spencer who spoke first. "Is he always… like that?" He had a feeling that he wouldn't have to elaborate.

Amusement flicked in John's eyes. "Barely a day passes by without me wanting to punch him at least once, if that's what you mean. But… I've seen what he's willing to do for those he cares about." The memory seemed to sting because the doctor shivered and wrinkled his nose like he'd tasted something unpleasant. "He died for me, once."

Spencer felt like it wasn't his place to pry. But he couldn't quite contain his curiosity and surprise. "Oh?"

John nodded slowly, not looking towards him. "Yeah." The man then took a breath and got up. "Right. I've left those two unsupervised for too long." The Brit gave him a look. "Are you coming along?"

Spencer gulped. His body wasn't aching the way it did before but he still felt a little shaky. And nowhere near ready to face his… brothers. "I'll just… sit here for a bit." Something told him that he wouldn't be left alone for long, anyway.

Based on the hint of mirth in his tiny smile, John seemed to know that as well. The doctor nodded, then headed inside. The sounds of heated talking revealed that not a second too soon.

Spencer inhaled once more, pleased to discover that it didn't hurt anymore. He allowed his gaze to stray until he simply closed his eyes, savouring the moment of peace and the taste of water swirling on his tongue. And if he really focused he could've sworn that he felt his mom sitting beside him.

* * *

Much later that evening, with most of the others having retired for some much needed rest, Sherlock was alerted by the sounds of a hushed yet heated conversation. He frowned and crawled up from his futon with as much stealth as a cat, then began to make his way soundlessly towards his destination. Up close he could hear Spencer's voice.

"… _see you. You should go, right now._"

The second voice, masculine and clearly older, was agitated. Clothes rustled under restless movements. "_There's something important I need to tell you! __I can't just…_"

"_… walk away?_" Spencer's snort held a clearly audible touch of bitterness. "_You already have, multiple times. So why not now?_"

That was when Sherlock stepped into view and became the centre of the duo's attention instantly. He frowned, unable to recognize the older man's shocked face looking back at him. He knew that the intruder should've been familiar, he was even able to rationalize why. Shouldn't he be able to recognize his own father? But this man… His brain refused to make the connection.

The intruder gasped. Even dared to take a single step forward. "Will…? Is that you?" Were those tears shining in his so called father's eyes? "You're… I can't believe…"

Whatever had been almost said was interrupted by a new arrival. Mycroft's eyes held something terrifying that Sherlock had never, ever seen in them before while they took in the older man. The stranger, on the other hand, stared at the oldest brother with nearly palpable shock. "Charles?"

"Leave", Mycroft growled from deep within his throat. The tone was such that very few would've dared to protest. Most likely without noticing it Mycroft took a protective stance in front of his brothers. "Right now." With that the door was closed on their father's face, with as little volume as the government official managed at the moment.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Aaaand… BAM! Not exactly the welcome William Reid expected, I'd assume. He should be glad that Mycroft had enough self-restraint to use a door instead of a bullet… We'll see what's up ahead for the brothers… Those poor things seriously have it rough!

Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? PLEASE, do let me know! It feels FANTASTIC to hear from you.

Until next time, you guys! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: His appearance seriously promises nothing good, eh? (winces) We'll see just what happens next…

Huge thank yous for the review!

* * *

**Who-wants-to-kno**: Oh boy indeed! It looks like the whole mess is about to escalate to a whole new dimention. (winces) We'll see just what William Reid brings along…

Ooooh, you've got such juicy questions! Fret not, all shall be revealed in a few more chapters. (grins) I'm thrilled that you've enjoyed the story thus far so! I really hope that the next bit won't disappoint, either.

Massive thank yous for the review!


	7. A Study in Straws and Camels' Backs

A/N: SURPRISE! I'm early this week. (grins) I'm afraid that it's back to the weekend-routine after this speedy update but I hope that you'll enjoy the early bird nonetheless.

FIIIIIIIRST, though…! You guys are INCREDIBLE. You know that, right? All those reviews and love… THANK YOU! I have no words. (HUUUUUUUGS)

Awkay, because I have a feeling that my babblings aren't why you came here… Let's go! Enjoy?

* * *

A Study in Straws and Camels' Backs

* * *

/ _Mycroft knew from the phone calls he'd had with their adoptive parents that Sherlock had had it rough since his departure. It was one of those very few things that drove him back on that pitiably grey spring afternoon. Only to find that his brother wasn't in the Holmes residence._

_Mycroft drove around almost all night. Ignoring the fact his eyes barely stayed open. Ignoring the fact that it was Thursday and he'd eaten barely a thing since Monday._

_It was three thirty in the morning when Mycroft spotted a only distantly familiar figure. At the moment Sherlock was having a shouting match with the bouncer of a very uninviting looking club. Taking a deep breath Mycroft parked the car and emerged. His steps and eyes were those of a war-weary soldier while he made his way towards the younger man._

_"Don't let him in", he demanded in a voice he couldn't quite recognize. "I know him. He's only sixteen."_

_The bouncer gave him an unimpressed look and lifted his hands. "Wasn't planning to. Just get him out of here, mate. He's already been almost punched by two people."_

_Mycroft met Sherlock's furious eyes with fire of his own. "Move it", he commanded with every little bit of authority there was in him. "Into the car. Right now."_

_Stunningly enough Sherlock obeyed, stumbling slightly as he went. Mycroft followed although dealing with his brother at the moment was one of the last things he wanted to do. When he took the driver's seat Sherlock was already sitting firmly, sulking and fuming silently. Mycroft started the car and prepared himself for a long day to come._

_They'd been driving around in circles for almost twenty minutes until Mycroft finally trusted himself enough to speak. "You don't smell like alcohol but you're clearly under the influence. You're high, then."_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. The boy seemed to see something incredibly fascinating in the darkness outside. "A brilliant deduction", the teen mocked._

_Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he squeezed the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. "What have you taken and who sold it to you?" There was no answer. It wasn't a surprise but still incredibly infuriating. "Alright. How much have you taken?" He had to know although he dreaded the answer._

_Sherlock shrugged. "Can't remember. Enough." The boy clearly did his best to seem bored. "Is this interrogation about to continue?"_

_Mycroft fought to ignore the urge to throw a punch. Or burst into tears. "And what, exactly, made you result to something as _stupid_ as this?"_

_"Because it keeps my thoughts under control. And makes people more tolerable." A very unsteady finger was pointed at him. __"It's funny. __When I'm this high, it almost looks like you care."_

_"Sherlock!" Mycroft's tone seemed to surprise them both. "Are you an idiot! But surely you know that you need to stop doing this to yourself."_

_Sherlock snorted. The teen's eyes were full of defiance, fury and something else he didn't quite recognize. "Give me one good reason." It sounded vicious but a careful ear caught that it wasn't much more than a desperate plea. A drowning person's cry for a saving rope._

_Mycroft lifted his chin although everything inside him was aching and falling apart. Kept his expression even although he felt ready to crumble down right there. "Because you're killing yourself", he announced bluntly, taking in his brother's appearance. "And I can't… I'm not going to lose you, too."_

_Sherlock refused to speak a word to that, instead folded his arms and sighed dramatically, leaning heavily against the seat. But the teen also didn't climb out of the car although they'd stopped to a red light and Mycroft took that as a frail positive sign. He felt a pair of drug hazed eyes observing him. "Have you gained weight?" It took a pair of very sensitive ears to catch the worry behind those words._

_Mycroft shifted with discomfort. "Lost some", he admitted through his teeth, like confessing to a crime. He was not going to have this conversation right now. Not when his heart was shattering to pieces in his chest and there was a ton's load of guilt crushing his shoulders. It took all the strength he had to keep himself together. "Let's just focus on getting you sober." He sighed heavily, his entire exhaustion making itself known while adrenaline faded. "Mommy's going to be heartbroken when she sees you like this."_

_Sherlock's eyes gained a brand new touch of venom all of a sudden. The glare aimed his way would've made even the mightiest recoil. "At least she hasn't been forced to see _me_ hooked on tubes in a hospital."_

_That hurt, quite possibly every bit as much as Sherlock meant it to. "Not yet." Mycroft gritted his teeth together so tightly that it hurt. "We weren't their best investment."_

_Sherlock nodded an absentminded agreement. The boy's eyes were already drooping, giving away several sleepless nights. "Too bad we didn't come with a return address." The younger brother yawned gloriously, settling more comfortably against his seat. "Now shut up. You sound far more irritating, now that you're real."_

_Mycroft glanced towards his brother with some surprise, his lips parted. All words got stuck into his throat when he discovered that Sherlock was already fast asleep. Focusing on the road, Mycroft wondered how long it'd take before he'd be able to rest peacefully._ /

* * *

/ _At around the same time Spencer graduated from high school. He was a miracle student, years ahead his peers. His accomplishment should've been celebrated. Spencer wasn't in the mood. Because as he received the paper that ended some of the most horrible years of his life his eyes scanned through the audience. He couldn't find the one and only face he would've wanted to see there. It was only a small comfort that for once his class mates didn't bother to mock or otherwise pester him._

_Somehow Spencer made it through the entire ordeal. He was even able to take the excited parents rejoicing with their children, showering them with compliments, without falling apart. He was just about to vanish into the crowd when his name was called._

_Surprised, Spencer turned around. It took a moment before he remembered the name to the face approaching him. "Uncle Daniel? What are you doing here?"_

_Daniel, who appeared comfortingly friendly with his slightly overgrown brown hair and warm eyes of the same color, shrugged. "I came to take you home, of course." The man gave him a look of sympathy. "I'm… sorry, that your mom couldn't come. I'm sure that she would've wanted to be here."_

_Spencer nodded and looked away, unwilling to show someone he'd only seen twice how much it hurt._

_"Hey, what's with that expression? This is a time to celebrate." Daniel thought for a moment. "You know what. There's a new book store opening today. And I could buy you some ice-cream afterwards if you promise not to tell your mom about it. How does that sound?"_

_Spencer nodded eagerly, forgetting a tiny part of the sorrow that'd been weighing his small shoulders._ /

* * *

The silence that followed the door closing was so absolute that under different circumstances it might've been amusing.

Spencer swallowed after two full minutes, finally daring to look away from the door and towards Mycroft. "Thanks." What he was thanking for, exactly, was a mystery even to himself but he wasn't ready to face William Reid at the moment. Then, the presence of the men who were supposed to be his brothers becoming too much, he took his leave.

Once he was gone Sherlock frowned and focused on Mycroft. His head was spinning and buzzing, trying to tell him something that he couldn't quite grasp. "Care to explain?"

Mycroft appeared nauseated. Was the man… shaking? "That man… has no place in our lives anymore. It's high time he remembers that." Seeing that the answer wasn't enough the government official growled quietly. "Believe it or not, Sherlock, but there is such a thing as too much information." With that the older brother left, every little bit of his body language screaming out that he wasn't going to speak another word of the matter.

Sherlock stood absolutely still and as soundless as a shadow, his eyes moving towards the door and lingering on it. He knew that William still stood behind it, waiting to be called in. So many answers would walk away with the man. William was his biological father, the one in whose honor he'd been named. There were so many things that he wanted to and needed to know. Could he really let all of that slip away?

There were so many secrets…

"Sherlock?" The familiar voice actually managed to sneak up on him. Sherlock's head snapped up and he turned his gaze almost unnaturally quickly to meet Spencer's confused and tired, perhaps even a little worried face. "Are you… alright?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, of course." With some confusion he discovered that the younger man had changed his clothes from a pair of sweat-pants and a t-shirt to jeans and a worn red shirt. "Where are you going? It's the middle of the night."

For a few moments Spencer stared at the older man, clearly wondering if he was joking. Then blinked. "It's six thirty in the morning."

Well, that certainly was a surprise. So Sherlock had spent the entire night just standing there, thinking? Then again, it was hardly the first time such a thing happened. "Oh", was what he settled for in the end, deciding that more words would've been a waste of breath.

Did one corner of Spencer's lips twitch? "Yeah." The agent nodded towards the kitchen. "We both need coffee. So let's go." It was by no means a peace offer, let alone something more. Just two troubled souls in need of a small, quiet moment.

David, who'd been about to enter the kitchen to make some breakfast for everyone, froze a few steps away when he heard the recently united brothers talking. A small smile made its way to his lips when Spencer began to head towards the kitchen and Sherlock followed soon with a sulking expression on his face. Right there the senior agent decided that perhaps an hour or so more of sleep wouldn't hurt.

* * *

They should've known that Cluedo was a bad idea for entertainment. John kept trying to tell them so. But alas, that was what they found themselves occupied with. At first everything was going stunningly smoothly. And then Sherlock starting coming up with both his very own rules and suspects. By the time Sherlock and Derek were hissing at each other like to overgrown five-year-olds JJ perfected her sweetest smile and sent her teammate into kitchen to get them all some sparkling water.

When Derek returned Sherlock was stretching, the tall man's muscles most likely sore from prolonged sitting. The hem of the man's shirt rose just enough to reveal a sliver of his back. And that was when the profiler's trained eyes spotted the scar-tissue. He arched an eyebrow. "What happened to your back?" Any other day he might've been able to control his tongue. But not when he'd been tested by hours upon hours in the presence of the infuriating genius.

They way John and Mycroft tensed up should've been enough of a warning. Sherlock's glare even more so. "I fail to see how that's any of your business."

"Morgan…!" Aaron snapped.

"Sherlock…!" John and Mycroft cautioned in almost perhaps unison.

Derek lifted one hand as a half-hearted sign of peace. "Sorry, I was just curious. It looks like it still hurts."

Sherlock's eyes turned into something very, very dangerous. "So you're trying to deduce me? Don't bother." The detective walked closer and made a slow, threatening circle around him. "You're the least gifted profiler of the group so you hide behind brutal force and Alpha male behaviour. Despite having been a member of the team for years you're still insecure. You become defensive as soon as someone questions your professional capabilities. You do your best to hide that lack of confidence, however. You've spent years upon years trying to prove both yourself and your team that you're worthy of your place, that you're no longer that pathetic, scared little boy."

Derek's eyes sharpened hazardously. The man's whole body tensed up. "I'm not the only one here with secrets."

Sherlock nodded. "True. But if I were you I wouldn't get started on how to face demons of the past. You're hardly a prime example."

No one had the chance to see the swing of a fist coming, let alone stop it. The reaction Derek's action caused wasn't such any of them would've known to expect. All of a sudden there was a flurry of movement. The next moment, before anything could be done to prevent it, the stunned agent had been hurled against the nearest wall. A firm, uncompromising hand held him there. The eyes glaring ice and lava at the same time would've frozen anyone even if the hold hadn't.

"I'm only going to say this once", Mycroft growled. The tone was firm and nothing short of frosty but also, in some chilling way, polite. That of a very focused killer. The man's hold on the front of Derek's shirt didn't loosen even the slightest bit. "Never… ever… lay a hand on my brother again. Is that understood?"

Very slowly, reasonably casting worried glances towards Mycroft's free hand that was behind the tall Brit's back, Derek nodded. Appearing satisfied with the response Mycroft let go, leaving the still stunned agent catching his breath. Everyone else also released a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding.

The tense silence that followed was cut by the sound of a text message. With perfectly steady hands Mycroft took his phone and gave it a look, then scowled. "Now, if you'll excuse me…" They all watched his retreating back and soon heard him speaking rather icily in a foreign language.

JJ blinked once, twice. Her own hands were only just starting to stop shaking. "Is that…" She frowned. "… Japanese?"

"Korean", Sherlock corrected instantly. No matter how hard the middle brother clearly tried to hide his true feelings his eyes were slightly wide and his face seemed a little paler than usual. He, the one who was supposed to know Mycroft the best, appeared the most shocked.

There was a long, heavy silence while they all attempted to process what just happened. In the end John nodded. "Right…" He looked at them all. "Let's have a time-out. Sherlock, you're coming with me." Meeting a heated glare the doctor responded in kind. "And don't even try! I'm the only one who can tolerate you in that mood without wanting to crack your skull open in five minutes." The smaller Brit then let his gaze wander. "Which one of you is the least likely to punch someone?"

Everyone looked towards the same direction. Penelope sighed, beginning to move. "I'm on it. It sounds like the phone call is over."

Slowly yet steadily the room began to clear, finally leaving only Spencer, Derek, Aaron and David. The genius glanced towards the still slightly dumbfounded seeming Derek. "You alright?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" Derek shook his head, rubbing at his knuckles. "I can't believe that I let him get to me like that!"

David patted him on the shoulder. "If it's any consolation, that was a mighty right hook. But next time try to choose an opponent that doesn't have razor sharp cheekbones." The senior agent looked at the reddened skin of his knuckles and winced. "Now let's get some ice on those."

* * *

When John marched Sherlock to one of the FBI agents' cars the younger man seemed genuinely impressed. "A car-jacking, John? Really now?"

John smirked, taking the driver's seat. It was a bit chilling how easily he was allowed to take charge like that. "Sorry to disappoint but I have a permission to borrow this."

Sherlock scoffed and folded his arms. The man's gaze was darted out of the window while the journey began. "Dull."

John found it harder than it should've been to hold back a giggle or at least a smile. He rolled his eyes. "So is getting arrested", he pointed out. "Remember that time you borrowed a car with your own permission? I really thought that Greg would kill you right there."

Sherlock frowned. The detective seemed genuinely confused. "Greg?"

John sighed heavily, focusing on the road to keep some violent thoughts at bay. "_Lestrade_. Honestly, Sherlock! It's a short name and you've known him for years."

There was a long moment of silence. By the time Sherlock spoke John had already forgotten what they'd been talking about. "He wouldn't have killed me." Meeting his confusion the sleuth sighed dramatically, obviously irritated by the slowness of his brain. "Gawin. He wouldn't have killed me. No one would find his body if Mycroft found out and he knows it."

John's eyebrow bounced up. "Have you… actually talked about that?" He lifted a hand when his friend's lips opened. "Never mind, I don't want to know in case I'll have to testify in court one day."

Sherlock nodded, focusing on the landscape. "Sounds reasonable. And you're a horrible liar."

They drove on for what felt like ages until John found what he considered a proper spot. Sherlock's puzzlement was nearly palpable when he parked. "Alright, then. Let's get out of the car."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed while the man clearly tried and failed to deduce. "There's nothing but desert out there, John. Why…?"

John counted to five in his head, slowly, and hoped against all prior evidence that it'd be enough. "For once just stop thinking. Entirely."

Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look. "You do know that that's impossible, don't you?" The man made no move to obey.

"Do it and I'll tell you where I hid two of your cigarettes." John smirked. "And don't try to tell me that you know." He nodded towards the desert spreading outside. "Now out of the car."

Sherlock finally obeyed amusingly hesitantly, his moves slow and reluctant. As soon as they both stood outside the detective cast a sharp, demanding look towards him. "What are you expecting me to do?"

"Simple. Scream at the top of your lungs." John shrugged. "What? I know that you've wanted to do so since this whole mess began. So do it. There's no one else but me here to hear it."

Sherlock seemed a little hesitant at first but eventually the temptation won over. The taller man took a small breath, as though testing it, then another, filling his lungs. And howled at the top of his voice.

* * *

Penelope didn't manage to find Mycroft. And in the end, almost an hour later, it was David who accidentally hit the correct spot. Deciding that perhaps the most unexpected options were the most probable ones he headed to the house's basement. For some reason a chill crossed him when he took the stairs.

"If you don't mind, leave the lights off."

David jolted a little with startle. It took almost ten seconds before he recovered enough to talk. "Do you have a headache?" It wouldn't be a surprise, considering everything that was going on.

Mycroft replied with a incomprehensible grunt. David's eyes, which were slowly getting used to the lack of light, were able to distinguish the government official lay on a mattress that must've been dumped to the chilly, moist space ages ago. The man had one arm covering his eyes.

David approached with as little noise as possible. He was happy to discover a chair that seemed just and just steady enough to be sat on. He tried it cautiously and was relieved to discover that it didn't fall apart. "I hope that you don't mind company. I'd appreciate a little peace and quiet after all the noise and drama up there." He knew that he should've been trying to get to know this man better. That at very least he should've asked what the loss of control earlier was all about. But he had a feeling that neither of them was ready for it.

Mycroft voiced no protests against his presence. David chose to take that as a good sign. And so they remained in a comfortable silence, both pleased with the stolen moment of calm in the middle of a hurricane.

* * *

Upstairs JJ knocked on the door of Spencer's room. "Spence?" She frowned upon receiving no reply. "I've got coffee and a slice of toast. You need to eat something."

Still no response. Alarm bells going off in JJ's head she opened the door and froze. Something incredibly cold and heavy swell inside her.

Spencer was nowhere to be seen. And considering that he'd left his cell phone he'd gone in a hurry. JJ, of course, couldn't know of the voice mail message he'd received.

"_It's Dr. Jones, calling on the paternity test. The results just came in and… Maybe it's for the best if we talk about this in person. Call me when you can._"

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Dun, dun, dun… Sooooo, after some HEEEEEAT and the moment of calm that followed it seems that we're on the verge of plunging to a whole new level of mess.

Sooooo… Was that any good, at all? Worthy of being deleted from everyone's Mind Palace? Please, do let me know! (perfects the 'puppy dog eyes' routine)

Until next time, folks! I truly hope that you'll all stop by then.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Awww, I'm glad that you enjoyed it! It sure was fun to type. (grins) I truly hope that what's to come turns out worth the wait!

Massive thank yous for the review!

* * *

**whowantstoknow**: It IS incredibly sad, isn't it? (sighs) They've all had it so very rough!

LOL! Sherlock's such a sneaky guy. 'Seems that the profilers are on to him, though. We'll see how long they'll be able to postpone that punch. (smirks) Awww, John's such a cutie, isn't he? Always there for Sherlock, no matter how hard that guy makes it.

Mega-sized thank yous for the review!


	8. A Ballad for the Broken Hearted

A/N: I had A LOT of doubts. Especially since this chapter took its sweet time to take shape in my head. But I DID manage a Friday-update! (BEAMS) Hooray…?

BUT, before getting to it… THANK YOU, so, so, so much, for your absolutely amazing reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. (HUGS) Thank you!

Awkay, before I get all sappy… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

A Ballad for the Broken Hearted

* * *

/ _Sherlock was young, arrogant, brilliant, incredibly stupid and, like many teenagers, imagined that nothing could harm him. And it wasn't long after Mycroft first saw him high the younger brother ended up paying the price for his foolishness. Mycroft ended up paying it as well, really._

_He was on his way home from a long and tedious day full of classes, wincing every couple of steps under the assault of a headache. All he wanted was to take a very long nap. Instead he received a phone call from his crying adoptive mother, during which she barely managed to sputter that Sherlock was in a hospital. It was a small miracle that Mycroft didn't simply collapse, right there and then._

_It was also a miracle that Sherlock didn't die or suffer significant damage to his so-called transport. A grim faced doctor who was clearly sick of his job told them exactly how close it all still was, blatantly ignoring the fact that the Holmes' obviously weren't ready to hear it, then led the couple to who could only be a social worker and a therapist. Mycroft made his way to Sherlock's room. And wished dearly that he hadn't._

_Never, ever had Sherlock appeared quite as frail, small and helpless as the teen did on the hospital bed. Hooked on far more tubes and machines than Mycroft was willing to count. So pale that with the dark circles around his eyes the boy seemed dead. Words that'd been spoken not much earlier came echoing mercilessly._

_'_At least she hasn't been forced to see me hooked on tubes in a hospital._'_

_'_Not yet._'_

_Mycroft slumped down to what had to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world and buried his face into both hands. It was the only thing keeping him from starting to scream out loud. His whole far too thin body shuddered, nearly spasmed, under the force of the emotions he was trying to hold back._

_Over the following thirty-two hours, eighteen minutes and twenty-five seconds that followed, during which Mycroft only moved from his post for the bathroom, the older brother waited to hear whether Sherlock would survive. Waited, bargained, raged and fumed, all of it firmly hidden away inside his head. And knew something with far more certainty than ever before._

_Caring wasn't an advantage. _/

* * *

/ _Daniel's house became a place of peace and solace for Spencer. Whenever he needed a break from his mom and dared to leave her alone he went to visit his uncle. It felt good to forget about all his sorrows and feel like a normal twelve-year-old._

_One day he was about to take a swim in Daniel's pool, like he often did. He froze to the patio when he realized that his uncle wasn't alone. Right in front of the man stood another, much taller one at around Daniel's age. The stranger certainly looked like a businessman, dressed in the most expensive suit Spencer had ever seen. It was all black, save a blood-red tie. While Daniel was visibly tense the other man seemed perfectly relaxed and his entire posture spoke of self-control and excellent manners. Neatly cut, light brown hair and a pair of bizarre, hazardous eyes that were the closest to hazel color. Although the surface was impeccable alarm bells went off in Spencer's head. It was a bit like facing a dangerous, poisonous snake._

_His arrival gained the adults' attention instantly. The stranger's lips formed a tight, straight line. Spencer was a little too young and unaware of such matters to fully understand the look in those eyes. "Really, Daniel?" The smooth accent wasn't enough to hide the disgust and something close to rage. "Isn't he a bit old for you?"_

_Spencer frowned. Instinctively his body stiffened and he took a step backwards. "'A bit old'?" he repeated hesitantly._

_Daniel swallowed hard and looked towards Spencer. "Just… Go home, yeah? I'm sorry but today's not a good day, after all. I forgot that I had a business meeting."_

_Spencer nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. He knew that his uncle's work was important, he remembered hearing the man fighting about it with his father. Still… "Maybe tomorrow?"_

_Daniel nodded. The man's smile was almost honest. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you tomorrow."_

_Walking away, Spencer couldn't help but feel just a little bit of relief. The stranger's words and chilling eyes kept haunting him. The following morning he found his mom crying in the living room. It took five minutes before he managed to find out what was wrong. Uncle Daniel had died in a car accident._

_A couple of weeks later Spencer was too struck by grief to question when he saw the stranger in a suit observing Daniel's funeral. Their eyes met, very briefly. Before Spencer could decide what to make of the look in them the man had already turned around and began to walk away._ /

* * *

Derek was actually quite surprised to find a punching bag from one of the Reid residence's rooms. But not even slightly displeased. In a matter of moments he was at it, throwing furious kicks and punches with the whole force of his being. Blowing off some steam that'd been building up for a long time, now brought back to life by Sherlock's venomous words.

Derek had no idea how long he'd been assaulting the bag until John's voice managed to pull at least a tiny part of his mind back to the present. "Impressive. Although, as a doctor, I'd advice you to give your knuckles some rest. I know from experience how sharp those cheekbones can be."

Derek panted, letting go of the bag with reluctance he hadn't known to expect. He ran a rather unsteady hand down his scalp, unsurprised to discover that his skin hurt. Those cheekbones indeed were sharper than razor blades. "I… know that I crossed a line. But the things he said…"

"That's how Sherlock copes when he's hurting", John explained. There was sadness in the smaller man's eyes. "Derek, he just lost his mother! And he never even got the chance to learn to know her. He's grieving, angry and in pain. You should know how that ache feels."

Derek frowned. Suddenly on guard. "How…?"

John smirked, just a little bit. "The Holmes' aren't the only ones who can pull off a solid deduction every once in a while." The former soldier than sobered up. "Look, you don't know him…"

The sentence was interrupted when JJ appeared. Worry was loud and clear on her face. "We may have a problem."

* * *

When Spencer first headed for a run that was supposed to ease off some of the weight sitting on his shoulders he had no idea where he was going. Hence he was surprised upon discovering that someone was already there waiting for him. For a few moments he froze, unsure if he'd be able to handle the conversation up ahead at the moment. Then, after a deep breath, he began to approach very slowly.

"You've been out for the past four and a half hours. Are you alright?" Mycroft asked even though according to all logic the man shouldn't have noticed him yet.

Spencer shivered with surprise. He opened his mouth twice before deciding on brutal sincerity. "No. You?"

Mycroft glanced towards him briefly and for this one, fleeting moment something painfully raw and honest lingered in the man's exhausted eyes. Then, a blink later, it was gone. "No", Mycroft admitted after a long pause. "I suppose that I'm not."

For a while he and Mycroft simply stood there, staring at the spot that'd been chosen as their mother's burial ground. It wouldn't be long until her body would be there, covered by layers upon layers of dirt. Even the thought…

"You chose the place well", Mycroft commented in a voice that didn't quite sound like the man. It was impossible to read the feelings behind that firmly placed mask of passivity. "She would've enjoyed the embrace of morning sun." The government official's eyes turned a little hazy, lost into a memory. "She was always at her most lucid in the morning. At her happiest. She was always humming '_Au clair de la Lune_'."

It was a memory that they could share, although they didn't get the chance to experience it simultaneously. It was of their mother singing softly in a language they'd been too young to understand. There was always a soft, tender smile on her face during those magical moments. Her embrace was the most comforting thing in the world.

Mycroft sighed, lifting his gaze towards the sun. It was impossible to tell if his eyes were moist or not. "Or maybe I'm imagining it all. It was so long ago that it's hard to say."

Spencer shook, unsure if he was expected to say something. He licked his lips and fidgeted, relapsing to long ago forgotten nervous habits. It took longer than it should've before he was able to form words. "It did happen", he announced firmly. Because the older man had to know that much. "I'm sorry that you never got to see her again." He wasn't sure which one was worse. Remembering too much or not remembering enough. "She was a good mom." Or at least tried to be, as hard as she could.

Mycroft hummed softly. It was hard to tell what went through the man's head. "Unfortunately I wasn't a very good son. I had all the resources I needed to find her but chose not to. I even stopped all of Sherlock's attempts of looking for her." The Brit gritted his teeth so hard that it must've hurt. "It makes sense that she died of a broken heart."

Spencer scoffed, unable to stop himself from staring at the tiny wooden cross that had her name on it. "And I had her locked up into a hospital as soon as I turned eighteen. So do you want to make a contest out of that one?"

Mycroft chuckled. It sounded equal parts bitter, amused, tired and sad. "Some family, the bunch of us make."

Under different circumstances they might've been stunned by the suggestion that they were actual family. By the fact that Mycroft seemed to start considering them one. But as it was they both had far too much on their minds.

Spencer swallowed thickly. Then, after a long hesitation, came to a decision. "I… I'm supposed to go and pick the coffin, but… There's someone that I need to see first, before I can focus on doing that."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Clearly surprised. "And you're trusting me, of all people, to help you with that?"

Spencer nodded slowly. Honestly, he wasn't sure about what he was doing at all. "Yes. Because you're the only one who has enough secrets of his own to keep mine."

* * *

When six hours without Spencer passed by the team began to grow worried. It escalated to something very close to panic when they noticed that Mycroft had left without a trace as well. One of the brothers having vanished was a bad sign. Two meant a almost certain disaster. In the end they decided to start looking, just in case. While Aaron and David occupied one car and JJ took another with Penelope John, Sherlock, Derek and Alex were left behind.

Under different circumstances the look of betrayal on Sherlock's face would've seemed highly amusing when John refused to take the driver's seat. The detective frowned, tensing up visibly. "John?"

John tried very, very hard to keep his expression in check. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. But the two of you need to talk it out sooner or later. And honestly, him driving at the time feels like the safest option." Perhaps it'd be enough to prevent a yet another physical confrontation.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The low, hazardous sound crawling from the man's throat wasn't exactly promising. "I'm never going to forgive you for this."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Tough." He then turned towards Derek, who didn't appear the slightest bit more thrilled than his best friend. A dangerous look of warning appeared into the former soldier's eyes. "As for you… If you give him another bruise… Well, let me remind you that I used to be a soldier."

Derek seemed to contemplate quite hard whether to take the threat seriously or not. The larger man blinked once, twice. "You're a doctor."

John shrugged. The dangerous look didn't quite leave his eyes. "Yes, and sometimes I have bad days." The older man then took a deep breath, like a parent exhausted from berating their child. "Now find those two. If they've met each other who knows what they're up to."

Derek actually shuddered a little at the thought. Watching the sulking duo taking off John could only hope that he hadn't just made a horrible mistake. Maybe he should've gone with them, after all.

Alex didn't seem any more optimistic than he did. She gave him a glance that seemed to question his sanity. "Are you sure about this?"

"No", he admitted. "But this is the only hope of making them talk like people resembling to two adults. If they don't off each other first."

Alex would've chuckled if it'd been closer to a joke. She then took a deep breath and stretched. "Well, I hope that you did the right thing. Because I got a message from Mycroft five minutes ago, saying that he found Reid safe and sound." Neither of them bothered to question how, exactly, the government official found out Alex's number. "I've already notified the others. Do you think that I should let those two know, too?"

John thought about it for a moment. Then shook his head. "Not yet, give them an hour or so. In the meantime… Tea?"

Alex grinned. "Sounds like a plan, doctor."

* * *

The tension in the car could've been cut by a knife. Sherlock sulked. So did Derek, although not even nearly as silently. His best friend was missing and he was stuck in the same vehicle with a man who was basically asking to get punched again. Incredible!

"You asked me about my scars." It came so suddenly that it was a small miracle Derek didn't drive off the road. Sherlock was staring pointedly out the window, so that he couldn't really see the detective's face. "Like I said, I fail too see how they're any of your business. And if you decide to stick your nose into things that don't concern you in any way, please choose a venue that isn't quite as public."

Derek could only stare, although it meant that he was seriously risking traffic safety. Right there, completely out of the blue, he understood. And his heart plummeted.

Because as clearly as if he'd been looking at a photograph he remembered the momentary look of anguish, horror and nausea on John's face when the scars were brought up.

Just as clearly he remembered the mixture of fear and sheer agony that lingered in Sherlock's eyes for a microsecond.

Derek had no idea what Sherlock thought and felt about the death of his birth mother. But he did realize that the scars were a highly sensitive topic. And all of a sudden the Brit felt far less like a psychopath.

"They were for John." Facing a frown Derek went on. "The scars. You did it all for John, didn't you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Even if the other one was decorated by a mighty shiner. "It'd be highly adviceable to shut up, now", the detective snapped through his teeth.

Derek sighed, squeezing the steering wheel so hard that his hands began to hurt, and focused firmly on the road. And happy thoughts. "I'm sorry", he offered. And was surprised to discover that he actually meant it. _About your mom. About failing to profile you properly._ "About your eye. We should put some ice on it when we get back."

Sherlock shrugged. There wasn't a hint of malice or grudge on the sleuth's face. "Why bother? I've had worse."

"Doesn't make it hurt any less", Derek pointed out.

Sherlock groaned, quite obviously beginning to grow irritated. "Try to think next time and maybe you won't be a completely hopeless profiler one day." The man's nose wrinkled. "John… pointed out that an apology might be in order."

Derek scoffed with disbelief. _Seriously…?_ "Was that supposed to be one?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Do shut up. It's bad enough to listen to you trying to think."

Derek rolled his eyes as well. But somehow the tension in the car wasn't quite as suffocating. They continued the, as they learned later, pointless search in a silence.

* * *

In another car not very far away another tense duo was making its way down a quiet road. Mycroft counted that they'd been driving for almost an hour before Spencer finally shifted restlessly, like someone waking up from a very unpleasant dream. "I, um… I assume that you want an explanation."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. That'd be highly appreciated." Of course he'd been able to deduce it, at least to an extend. And it helped that his… contact had found it necessary to send him a message as soon as they caught on, noticing test results that he might be interested in. But he wanted to hear it from Spencer.

Spencer refused to look at him. Instead the younger man's eyes locked stubbornly on a stain tainting the car's window, as though the look alone could've washed it away. "The day mom… Well. I found some of her old diaries and…" The agent swallowed. "William Reid… He isn't my real father. I used up a couple of old favors to have it confirmed. I just got the results a few hours ago."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "I see." He processed the whole concept for a few more moments. "Does he know…?"

"Yes, he knows. Apparently he's been trying to contact me but it's been strictly denied." Spencer wrapped his arms tightly around himself. It didn't stop the trembling. Color didn't return to the American's face. "I'm… not sure if I'm ready for this, especially now with everything else that's going on, but… There are things that I have to ask him. And I have to go and ask them now."

Mycroft nodded. It was easy to be patient when he already knew the answers. "And why, exactly, does it have to be now?"

Spencer swallowed. For a few seconds it looked like the man might be sick right there in the car. "Because… Because my biological father is a death row inmate. And he'll be executed in forty-six hours."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Now, who expected that one? (looks around) But seriously, oh dear, the drama…! But perhaps this is the start for something better for the brothers.

Soooooo… Any good, at all? PLEASE, do let me know!

I'm afraid that the next couple of weeks I DEFINITELY won't be able to pull a Friday-update. I've got pretty mad schedules coming up. BUT, I'm determined to maintain the one-chapter-per-weekend –routine. It seems that there's a heartwarming amount of you waiting for the update. (smiles like a sunshine)

Until next time, ya all! I really hope that you'll be joining in then.

Take care!

Oh yeah, and HAPPY EASTER to everyone who celebrates it! And those who don't, remember to eat lots of chocolate and/or other special treats! This is the perfect excuse.


	9. A Few Fateful Encounters

A/N: PHEW! I've been MADLY busy this week, preparing for a great adventure. BUT, I DID manage to get an update out. Hooray?

First, though… My gosh! THANK YOU, a million times over and more, for all those absolutely incredible reviews, listings, love and support. You can't even imagine how excited, shocked and happy I am that this story's gained so many friends! (BEAMS)

Awkay, because stalling isn't kind… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

A Few Fateful Encounters

* * *

/ _When Diana and William Reid first met each other they were only twelve. Both of them new students, trying to settle into new lives and environments. They captivated one another's attention almost instantly. Secret glances, blushing… Until eventually things inevitably escalated several steps further. It all started with a surprise meeting._

_Diana's thirteenth birthday didn't go well. Most of her friends forgot about it entirely. Math teacher gave her a hard time. A couple of girls from her class basically laughed at her clothes and new glasses. And when it was time to go home she ended up staring at the rear lights of the school buss._

_There, stranded into pouring rain, Diana was very close to bursting into tears. Until she heard the kindest voice that'd ever met her ears. "Are you okay?"_

_Startled, she turned around to see a boy of around her age hiding underneath a massive blue umbrella. She nodded, wiping her eyes until she remembered her glasses. "Yeah, I'm fine." As though on cue she started shaking._

_The boy frowned. "You'll catch a cold. Come here, my umbrella's big enough for us both."_

_At that point Diana was so cold that she didn't hesitate for even a second. There was a great deal of heat on her cheeks while she settled beside him. "Thanks." She gave him a brief glance from underneath her eyelashes. __"I… I'm Diana."_

_The boy smiled. And she'd be damned if it wasn't the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen. "William." He was definitely blushing. "It's, uh… It's nice to meet you."_

_Neither noticed that by the time the buss came they'd started holding hands. Nor could they possibly guess that just a few months later they'd exchange their first kiss. Or that at the age of sixteen Diana would come to William with a positive pregnancy test, crying hard, to announce that they were in a huge trouble._ /

* * *

/ _On the night Diana Reid met the father of her third son she was having one of her worst episodes yet. She most certainly wasn't herself, in any meaning of the words. And perhaps that was why she ended up encountering a man that professor Diana Reid would've never exchanged more than a few words with._

_Despite how little clothes she had on the night club was getting painfully hot and unbearably loud. In the end, after slapping a man who was trying to get too familiar and nearly getting herself thrown out, she decided that enough was enough and left. Only to freeze to the alleyway outside._

_Two men, a tall and dark stranger with the body of a Greek god and a much shorter and older one with quickly fleeing hair, were having what looked like a heated conversation. In the end the younger one moved his suit jacket just enough to show something. The other one paled and left immediately. Even in her current state of mind she knew exactly what that mystery-item was._

_Armed and dangerous, then._

_Now, any sane person would've walked away as fast as possible. But Diana didn't have such self-preservation instincts at the moment. So she approached instead, like a moth drawn to flame. "Got any light?"_

_The mystery man craned his neck just enough to see her. A hazardous little smirk revealed a row of flawless teeth. "For you, of course." The man tilted his head, observing, and held out his lighter. "You don't sound local."_

_"Neither do you", she commented while lighting her cigarette. Neither of them was very interested in home-cities, though. "Are you here for business or pleasure?"_

_"Business." The man smiled and there was something incredibly dangerous in his hazel eyes. "But I don't see any reason why I couldn't include a little bit of pleasure." His eyes strayed towards the tan-line on her left ring finger and his eyebrow arched. "Unless, of course, you're otherwise attached. Because those things never end pleasantly."_

_She scoffed. Was he serious? "Do I look like the marrying kind to you?"_

_The stranger responded with an amused smile. "Well, then… Why don't we get started with the pleasure?" He gave her a motorcycle helmet. "I'm Erik."_

_She replied with a radiant smile. "Amy. How very nice to meet you."_

_As they, a mystery man and a woman who was at the moment a stranger even to herself, gave in to heat and pleasure in his hotel room neither could've imagined the consequences._ /

* * *

Spencer didn't know what he expected before he entered the visiting room of a maximum security prison. He'd seen a lot of monsters during his career, perhaps enough to know that it was impossible to tell what they were supposed to look like. What he hadn't expected was the violent shudder that traveled through his entire body when this particular monster's eyes met his.

This one was different because evidently they had the same blood running through their veins, terrifyingly identical facial features and, apparently, the same eye color.

It was years from when the horrible hypno-therapy session brought the memory back to him and much longer from when it actually happened. But still, as vividly as if it happened the day before, Spencer remembered the man he saw at Daniel's house on the bizarre day before the man's death. And at the funeral, now that he thought about it.

"Well…", the prisoner stated. An accent was thick but he couldn't place it in his current frame of mind. "This is certainly unexpected."

Erik Collins, a contract killer and who knows what else. Extremely skilled and practically emotionless, with at least fifty killings on his mighty list of crimes. Aside the fact that he had the best lawyers working for him one of the biggest reasons to why it took all these years to carry out the death penalty was that some of Erik's claimed victims hadn't been found yet. He played with those investigating his case for years, leading them on and sending them on wild goose-chases. He must've enjoyed watching them struggle and become desperate. Eventually every single one of his so far known victims had been found dead. It could only be guessed how many suspicious deaths there were that Erik would never be linked to. The criminal would take the exact number of his victims to his grave. As the man would exhale his final breath several of his hirers would finally be able to breathe freely.

During his time in custody, as far as Spencer had been able to tell from the official files, ten attempts had been made on Erik's life. Those finally stopped when the killer confronted the latest poor soul sent after him in a shower room. Within the twenty-two minutes Erik managed to steal he caused ten broken bones, several deep cuts, cut off the attacker's tongue with a broken shard from the mirror and finally permanently blinded his unfortunate opponent. To the injured man's chest he engraved a warning that'd worked until this day.

'_thank you for the entertainment_'

Despite being a dead man walking Erik had kept fighting furiously for his life. Stubborn to the last. Like father, like son.

Spencer shook his head and narrowed his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, he slid to a chair. "I didn't come here to talk. That paternity test… It doesn't make you my father, not really."

The inmate's eyebrow arched. "I see. Then why, exactly, are you here?"

Spencer gritted his teeth, trying to overcome the spinning that'd taken over his head. Too much, all of this. "Because… Soon you'll be gone. And…" He cleared his throat to keep his voice from breaking. "I need to ask you some things before it's too late."

Erik shrugged. For a man who'd soon face his death he seemed eerily calm. "Go on ahead. I'm not going anywhere yet."

Spencer took a deep breath and licked his lips, trying to decide which ones of the million questions swirling around his head he should make. "How did you find out that you're my…?" He couldn't even voice the last word. Couldn't be in the same room with this monster and know that they had the same genes.

"An associate of mine saw you and Diana, once. The second I saw a picture of you I knew, even if another man was calling you his. I had to… encourage that associate into a permanent silence, of course. Someone in my profession can't have attachments, such as a family. But I did make sure that you were kept an eye on accordingly, of course." Erik smiled, which appeared unnerving on the criminal's face. "I was quite amused when I learned that you would become a federal agent. For quite a number of years I wondered if you'd be the one to catch me."

Spencer nodded slowly. Was this all really happening? "How did you get caught?"

Erik gave him a long look. "I'm sure that it was all in the file you must've read by now. My main employee James Moriarty died and I… was there, ending up linked on the case. Eventually I was caught by an undercover agent. Their name was never documented." The hitman tilted his head. "Now why don't you ask what's really on your mind?"

Spencer forced himself into meeting those eyes although it made him feel sick to his stomach. "Uncle Daniel… Did you kill him?"

Erik sighed, leaning forward. "You know I did. You're entirely too intelligent not to."

Spencer shivered. It was very hard to remain in control over his gag reflex. He focused on his spasming hands. "Why?" Those pictures of his uncle's wrecked car… They were all over the local newspapers for what felt like ages. Haunting and tormenting him. He had a lot of nightmares of Daniel in a flaming car, screaming at him to come and help. He remembered all of it, now.

All of a sudden Erik's eyes sharpened and hardened in a terrifying manner. The killer's entire posture changed. "Because I wasn't going to let a bottom eater like him harm my son."

A very intense wave of nausea went through Spencer. All of a sudden he realized something with a sickening amount of clarity. Which didn't make accepting it any easier. "Daniel wouldn't have harmed me."

Erik sighed heavily, looking at him with pity and irritation. "Really, Spencer? Because the man I knew was very different from the one you seem to remember." The criminal leaned forward, so that their shadows met on the table. "Daniel Reid was a registered pedophile. William Reid was very careful to hide that little detail from everyone, especially when he began to climb on his career. He told Daniel to stay away from his family but after he walked out on you and Diana… Well, what was there to stop him?"

Spencer might've thrown up if he wasn't in too much of a shock for that. Instead he unleashed a breathy, bitter chuckle. "You." It was all becoming increasingly clear. All too clear.

In his own horrible way this man, a serial killer and a total stranger despite being his blood relative, had been much more of a father than the man who took care of him for the ten first years of his life.

* * *

What felt like a lifetime ago Conrad Winston worked for MI6, alongside Mycroft Holmes and countless of others who weren't quite as lucky as the two of them. They survived, far too many didn't. Mycroft could handle it, earning himself his Iceman title. Conrad couldn't. After several twists and turns of fate he found his way to the United States and began to climb up the professional ladders of a prison. It wasn't a dream job but, even if he did send death row inmates to face their punishment, at least he didn't have to be the judge and executioner this time.

Over the years Conrad basically forgot all about his life in England, mainly to get rid of the nightmares and to preserve a tiny bit of his sanity. Which didn't mean that he would've completely forgotten where his loyalties used to lie and he remembered those once more when Mycroft contacted him. To arrange a meeting between an inmate and his son? Of course. To allow Mycroft the opportunity to keep an eye on the unfolding events? Not a strictly speaking good idea. Especially since Mycroft's men were the ones who caught this long saught killer months after an encounter in some hospital in London. According to what Erik revealed during his trial four people were supposed to die that day. A doctor named John Watson had been his own target. Instead, as it later turned out, only the life of his employer James Moriarty was claimed. Sherlock Holmes was lucky enough to come back to life.

"I'm throwing a wild guess that you don't want your brother to find out about this meeting?" Conrad suggested at last, watching how guards entered the room to tell Spencer and Erik that the time reserved for their meeting was out.

Mycroft's expression didn't change even slightly but something in the man's eyes did, just a little bit. "That would be most ideal, yes." The government official looked at him with a gaze that proved he earned his nickname. "Only the two of us here know about their connection. I'd prefer it staying that way."

Conrad nodded immediately. Even if it wasn't for old loyalties he would've never dared to cross a man like Mycroft. "Of course."

Mycroft nodded back, relaxing ever so slightly. "Thank you." For the secrecy and for arranging this bizarre meeting, obviously. With a brief handshake the government official began to leave. "Take care."

"You too." Conrad frowned and felt very cold all of a sudden. "Stay safe." As if such would've been possible in the other's profession but still…

Mycroft didn't respond with more than another brief nod. The look they exchanged spoke far louder. The click of a door sealed the meeting of old comrades.

* * *

Listening to the sounds of the doomed inmate being taken away Mycroft felt just a little more at ease. Very soon that monster would pay dearly for the pain the man caused on both of his brothers. And neither of them would have to know of Erik Collins' connection to the other. Justice would be served. The thought was acceptable.

With those musings Mycroft was able to keep his expression in check when he entered the tiny room and, for a moment, watched how Spencer fought desperately to pull himself together. "Alright, then. Are you ready to go?"

There was something nearly desperate in Spencer's moist eyes when they met his. The agent seemed to be trembling. "I just… I need a moment."

For a second Mycroft stared, contemplated. Then gave a nod. "Alright." Without saying another word he sat down.

And so they remained for the oncoming ten minutes, both gathering themselves and their thoughts, both in some miraculous way managing to draw a tiny bit of comfort from the other's company.

* * *

The tension in the kitchen could've been cut by a sword. Two grown men sat at a table, glaring at each other with stubborn eyes. Neither willing to show a single sign of weakness, much less to yield. Directly between them was a steaming plate with well-seasoned chicken and fries.

Sherlock's growl cut a very long silence. "I am _not_ going to eat right now. So kindly…"

John's left eyebrow twitched. "_Yes_, you are. Because from what I've heard you're supposed to be some sort of a genius. And a genius should know that a human being can't function properly without eating. Or am I going to have to force feed you?"

Sherlock's eyebrow bounced up. Was that expression closer to amusement or irritation? "People might talk."

John rolled his eyes. "They do little else, right?" The long suffering doctor groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now eat, will you? Or I'll have to take desperate measures."

"Desperate measures?" Sherlock didn't seem impressed but perhaps just a tad bit worried. "Something like calling Derek back and have him make me?"

John shook his head with a sly smirk. "Nope. Worse." The smaller man leaned forward. "I'd call your parents."

For a few moments Sherlock simply stared. Yes, there was definitely worry. "How would you do that? You don't even have their number."

John snorted. "Are you serious? After… well, last Christmas, and the events before that, they insisted that I need to have their number. In case of a emergency."

Sherlock sighed. "And _this_…" The man gestured towards the meal like it'd been his mortal enemy. "… is what you, a trained and experienced physician, deem a… emergency?"

"I can hear your stomach growling all the way here. So just eat the bloody thing or Penelope will have your head. She spent quite a while preparing it." John saw that he was close to succeeding. He decided to add fuel. "Eat, Sherlock. For me."

Sherlock scowled. But eventually the man did eat a couple of fork fulls, then looked at him with accusing eyes. "Doesn't manipulating your patients go against your oath?"

John shrugged. "You're not my patient. You're my best friend."

Sherlock stared for a stilled second, clearly wondering if he was serious. The detective ate just a little bit more. "Your idea of a friendship sounds rather bizarre."

John smiled almost fondly. "Since when have you sought out normal, anyway?" The older man pointed at the remaining dish. "Now eat. And then you're going to take a nap."

Sherlock pouted in a way that would've looked more suitable on the face of a five-year-old. "I don't need to sleep. It's dull."

"You're so tired that you almost walked at a door when I brought you back here. Sounds a lot more dull to me." John's tone was soft, understanding. Which somehow didn't make the words any less firm. "No finish up, then off to bed with you. I'll have some tea ready when you wake up." He wrinkled his nose. "Although the tea around here is pure rubbish."

Forty-five minutes later found Sherlock in a bed. As much as the detective had insisted that he wasn't going to get any rest the man was fast asleep only seconds after his head hit the pillow. Satisfied with the results John sighed and closed the door. Just in time to hear someone entering the house. Upon investigating he found Spencer, who seemed shaken and even paler than before. The younger man hadn't been crying but his eyes were a bit too bright and moist. "Are you alright?" John inquired.

Spencer nodded in a manner which suggested that the American wasn't planning on talking about whatever happened. The agent frowned and looked around. "Where's everyone?"

One corner of John's lips twitched. "I sent the team out to relax before they would've ganged up and offed Sherlock. He was being even more of a git than usual." He gave the other a look of sympathy. "And I had a feeling that you might appreciate some peace and quiet as well."

Spencer's expression spoke all necessary. The taller man's shoulders relaxed just a little. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." That was when alarm bells went off in John's head. "Where's Mycroft?"

"He said that he had to take care of something work related." Spencer shrugged helplessly. "I tried to talk to him but…"

John sighed heavily, feeling a headache setting in. "I know." Finally he unleashed a yawn that'd been oncoming for a long time. "Now, I'd better take a kip before Sherlock wakes up in all his glory. There's some food left if you're hungry." He was already retreating when he decided to add something, as an afterthought. "And, you know, if you want to… talk, or something…" Clumsy and awkward, but sadly also the best his brain could come up with at the moment.

Spencer seemed to get it, though. A hint of amusement could be seen on the agent's face. "Yeah. Thanks."

Upon laying down John frowned, unable to keep a bang on worry at bay. Mycroft taking off all alone at a time like this… He didn't like the thought. With most people he would've tried calling but he already knew that it'd be pointless to try and reach the government official if the man wanted to be left alone. Well, at least he had two out of three under the same roof once more. He could only hope that all the brothers would be alright. John groaned, burying his face into his hands.

It would seem that keeping all three brothers alive, healthy and sane was even more challenging of a task than he'd ever feared.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh dang, now that DOESN'T sound promising at all. Mycroft just… disappearing like that, basically. (winces) We'll see where this story takes us next…

Sooooo… Good? Bad? Luke warm? The word is all yours!

Awkay, as from tomorrow I'll be traveling and I've still got some preparations to do. Soooo, before further… I really hope that I'll see ya with the next update, which HOPEFULLY takes place somewhere around next weekend!

Take care!


	10. How to Treat Open Wounds

A/N: Phew! I'm officially back from a great, FANTASTIC adventure and now it's time to update. Yay! First, though…

GOSH! You guys keep baffling me. So many of you have befriended this lil' story of mine! THANK YOU, times million, for you incredible reviews, listings and affection. You sure know how to pamper an author! (HUGS)

Awkay, because I'm afraid that time's limited… Let's rock! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

How to Treat Open Wounds

* * *

/ _When Sherlock finally woke up after his overdose the first thing he felt was a immense, all consuming headache. The beeping of the machinery around him certainly didn't make it any easier. Not to even mention what the sterile reek hanging thickly in the air did to his head and stomach. He groaned and shifted, rubbing his face roughly with one hand._

_"Back in the land of the living, then?"_

_With far more difficulty than he'd expected Sherlock's eyes opened. At first he saw the vague outline of a person next to his hospital bed. Gradually, with him using every little bit of his stubbornness, his eyes adjusted enough to distinguish Mycroft's face. Instantly there was a sharp, electronic beep when his body reacted to what he discovered._

_Mycroft was incredibly pale and the dark circles, like bruises, around his eyes told that he hadn't slept in several nights. While those did produce a stab that felt suspiciously lot like guilt in Sherlock they weren't what made his stomach twist and turn. What really struck him was that the last time he saw Mycroft appear so thin, so… frail, which was a word that should've never been connected to his big brother, was right before the older was admitted to a hospital._

_Fueled by a combination of determination and alarm Sherlock attempted to push himself up. Instantly Mycroft's hand appeared to push him back down. "Slow and steady, now. You put your body through quite a strain."_

_Sherlock's left eyebrow twitched. "Who are you to lecture me?" he snarked in a voice that didn't sound like his. Had they intubated him? "You're no better."_ See, Mycroft? It's not a secret anymore. _Usually the thought would've been smug. Now it was just furious. And far more scared than he would've cared to admit._

_Mycroft's eyes widened marginally. On anyone else's face the flash of emotion would've been fear or at least worry. "I don't do drugs, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed. There was no stopping the venom from rolling off his tongue. "No, you don't. You prefer to starve yourself to death." His voice cracked, almost broke, and it had very little to do with the fact that he just woke up. As it was he didn't care. He was too tired and achy._

_There was a long, tense silence. The fact that Mycroft didn't even try to deny the accusation made it heavier still. In the end the older brother sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look… The thing is that you're still a minor. A minor who just had a drug overdose. Mommy and dad have been talking to social workers and therapists. They all agree that you need help."_

_Sherlock stiffened. He didn't like where this was going. "What sort of 'help' are we talking about?" he growled, even the thought making him defensive._

_Well, at least Mycroft had the decency to meet his eyes upon answering. "As soon as you're well enough you'll go into a rehab. You'll get all the help that you need."_

_Sherlock was on the edge, overwhelmed and suffering from the dawning withdrawal. All of that brought a layer of acid on his tongue. "Oh, quit with the guilt trip!" He inhaled sharply and fixed a stern look at his brother. "Fine, I'll go through with that idiocy. But only if you get help, too."_

_For several seconds Mycroft looked at him as though wondering if he was serious. It was more than expected that the answer would be a firm 'no'. A complete denial of all problems and a steel hard refusal to be blackmailed in such a way. The real Mycroft certainly would've done just that. But this exhausted, ill and, heaven forbid, emotional stranger… "Fine." And that was obviously all which should be said about the matter. It was impossible to recognize the hint of something bizarre that swam in those eyes. "Now sleep. You're going to need all the rest you can get to endure the hurricane mummy will unleash upon you when she returns."_

_The ordeal his transport had gone through must've truly exhausted Sherlock because he indeed slipped into oblivion. Somewhere in the strange place between sleep and wakefulness he could've sworn that he felt a hand in his. He couldn't possibly know that his own returned the gesture._ /

* * *

/ _The time following Daniel's death was mostly full of gray hue for Spencer. The police asked everyone questions, an endless parade of strange ones. Whether he knew if anyone had been at odds with his uncle, if the man's behavior had changed… They even asked what they did together, if they ever did anything that he found uncomfortable. Spencer couldn't understand those. Out of all the adults around him he always found it the easiest to be with Daniel and he told those examining the case as much. He didn't understand the strange look they exchanged until he was an adult and the full truth finally dawned on him._

_William Reid didn't come to his brother's funeral. Not even to support his son and wife. Spencer didn't quite manage to smother the additional tidal wave of hurt the absence caused._

_The brief appearance of a bizarre stranger, whom he later learned to know as Erik Collins, wasn't the only unexpected encounter Spencer had that day. In the middle of the horrible ceremony he could've sworn that he felt someone looking at him. Peering over his shoulder, Spencer frowned and blinked his teary eyes several times. There, at the back of the small church, stood a boy who seemed a few years older than him. Dark hair, eyes that neared the color black… He'd never seen that child before. What was he doing at his uncle's funeral?_

_No one was able or perhaps willing to tell him who the boy was. As it was a few years later he found out on his own, even if by then he didn't remember the boy anymore. Spencer's eighteenth birthday had passed by about seven months earlier when he moved to a brand new dorm room. Once there he was introduced to his roommate._

_"Ah, so I'm not going to get to keep this room to myself, after all! Welcome." The voice, no matter how kind the tone, delivered a jolt of inexplainable dread down to his core. Turning his head he saw a strikingly good looking young man with impossibly dark eyes. "Jim Moriarty, hi!"_ /

* * *

It wasn't until hours later John woke up from his light sleep. He wasn't very surprised to discover that Sherlock was still half unconscious. When the great detective gave himself the permission to sleep his entire great hard-drive of a brain crashed entirely. Pleased to discover that at least one of his charges was safe and sound John made his way towards the kitchen. Another discovery that didn't surprise him dawned a few steps from the doorway. The scent of coffee was very thick and extremely alluring.

Spencer was awake, then.

John rubbed his eyes, prepared to walk in. Only to freeze by the doorway. The sight he encountered made him blink twice.

Spencer, as it turned out, was reading while devouring his coffee as though it was a life preserving drug. What truly caught John's attention was the speed at which the young genius was reading. A page after another moved while the somewhat hazy hazel eyes scanned through the words, without a doubt never missing even a single one. On occasion Spencer's lips moved when a part of the page in question particularly caught his attention.

John must've made a sound although he wasn't aware of it. Or then he twitched. Because all of a sudden Spencer's head snapped up and a questioning gaze was directed at him. Obviously his stare wasn't a welcomed one. "Uh… Something wrong?"

John shook his head quickly, feeling a little embarrassed. "No, no, of course not. Sorry about that. I just…" He couldn't resist a tiny smile. "You just… looked a lot like Sherlock, there."

Spencer seemed surprised. It was impossible to name any other of the million emotions. "Oh." The agent then cleared his throat and shifted, clearly eager to switch topics. "I, ah… My team was called off, for a case. They should be back for the funeral but…" The rest faded out but John had no difficulties with hearing it.

The funeral arrangements… There was definitely much to be done. And if the look on Spencer's face was anything to go by the younger man wouldn't be able to handle it all on his own.

John felt his eyes soften. "I'd be glad to help you, if you let me. Maybe we can even get those two madmen to it without risking anyone's life or sanity."

Spencer appeared both embarrassed and relieved. In a few beats the latter won. "Thanks." Much more hung in the air between them.

John shrugged, eagerly pouring some coffee for himself. Maybe it would even be strong enough to wake him up a little. "During the time I've known him Sherlock's family has kept expanding aggressively. At bloody least you don't make me feel like raising a kid is going to be a child's play compared to looking after a Holmes." He frowned, then corrected himself. "Reid. Sorry."

Well, he succeeded in pulling a smile from Spencer. Small victories. After a prolonged, comfortable silence some new shadows appeared to the man's face. "John… There's… I'd like to ask you something, about what happened at the rooftop of the Bart's Hospital."

John stiffened and squeezed the mug so hard that it was a miracle it didn't break. In the matter of two seconds his entire body turned cold and a horrible taste rushed into his mouth. "I'd much rather not talk about it", he announced, trying and mostly failing not to sound too harsh.

Spencer seemed taken aback by the change of his tone and entire demeanor. The American licked his lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" The correct word seemed to be lost on the younger man. "It's just… Recently your name came up, connected to the Bart's. And I was wondering, if you'd like to know…"

"Is it a matter of immediate threat?"

Spencer appeared confused. Then shook his head slowly. "No." The man looked away, a strangely pained look on his face. "Or well, it definitely won't be, in a while."

"Then I don't want to hear anything about it." John took a deep breath and swallowed hard. His hands were trembling and he could almost swear that he felt some ache gnawing at his leg. "Look, Spencer…" He sighed, running one of his unsteady hands through his hair. "That day… It's the most horrible day of my entire life. I've been struggling long and hard to try and overcome it. So, I… I'd rather not be reminded. Yeah?"

Spencer nodded. Perhaps the younger man understood more than John had known to expect. Finally the discussion was directed elsewhere. "Have you heard of Mycroft?"

John sighed and shook his head. His fried nerves began to calm down slowly. "Not yet. But I have a feeling that if he doesn't want to be found he won't be. And even a cannon can't wake up Sherlock right now. So, looks like it's just the two of us for a bit." That was when his eyes spotted the brochure of a funeral home. A twinge of ache and a great deal of sympathy passed him. "Well, while we wait… Is that something I could help you with?"

* * *

Against his primary theory Sherlock did feel at least marginally better when he woke up. Better, yes, but also disoriented and groggy. He groaned and stretched, then wrapped the bedsheet around himself before beginning to saunter towards where he hoped dearly to find something that'd clear his head.

The house was, for the first time since he was dragged there by Mycroft, blissfully quiet and sparsely populated. The only traces of human inhabitance his keen ears caught were the voices of Spencer and John. He followed those and paused by the kitchen's doorway, uncharacteristically unsure how he should proceed.

The two were flipping through what looked whole a lot like brochures of a funeral home. The more his eyes observed the more chills went through him. Based on the notes that'd been made some ideas had already formed on most things. Flowers, music, who should be invited… And now pictures of far more coffins than Sherlock would've been able to stomach were on display, sneering at him.

He barely heard when Spencer spoke. Which wasn't a big surprise, considering how muffled the younger man's voice was. "… open or closed? …"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, a very odd, heavy feeling settling on his chest. His eyes narrowed while he leaned against the doorframe. Without noticing it he balled his fists so tightly that nails almost dug through skin. The words escaped before he had the slightest chance to stop them. "Closed", he announced, not liking the fact that his voice didn't sound quite right. "She's been stared at and kept an eye on most of her life. She would've preferred a closed one." He did, anyway.

Spencer… He'd had all his life with their mother in it. He had all those precious memories, all those tiny bits of information storaged into his head. The good, the bad, everything. And even Mycroft had almost a decade's worth of data.

Sherlock wouldn't have known what Diana Reid's favorite flower or song were. He wouldn't have even known her middle name. She was his mother and he didn't have enough in his Mind Palace to plan her funeral. So this, even the idea of really seeing her face now that she was dead while he couldn't really remember what she'd looked like when she was still alive…

If Mycroft was there the government official would've scoffed at such sentiment.

A sharp intake of breath from his right startled Sherlock free of those heavy thoughts. He turned his head to discover John's startled face. "Bloody hell, you scared me…!" Clearly the doctor saw something on his face that wasn't supposed to be visible because the man frowned. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock could've lied, of course. Or spat out something venomous that would've, hopefully, chased John away from him. But despite all the words storaged to his vocabulary the detective's mind was swept completely blank. So instead of even trying to speak he shook his head, once, twice, thrice.

John looked at him with what he would've called pity on anyone else. It was soon followed by something akin to alarm. "You… are wearing something underneath that sheet this time, aren't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be dull." He let the sheet fall. There was what sounded like a collective sigh of relief when he turned out to be fully clothed underneath.

"You bloody…!" And then, before either of them could see it coming, John had wrapped a stunningly firm pair of arms around him. At first Sherlock stiffened to the touch, unsure how he was supposed to answer to it. But eventually, one by one, his muscles began to relax. As much as he detested to admit it the warm, genuinely comforting embrace felt… not unpleasant.

"Right." John cleared his throat, appearing a little embarrassed, then nodded to himself with determination. "Go and wash up, yeah? In the meantime I'll fix you a breakfast. Or dinner. Or… whatever."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the thought. "I'm not hungry, John. I just ate."

"You slept for almost a full day. So, hungry or not, you _are_ going to eat something. Then Spencer and I will show you what we've been planning on."

Almost a full day? Sherlock certainly hadn't expected that. What infuriating waste of time.

He must've been wandering around his Mind Palace. Because one moment he was chased towards the bathroom by John and the next he was already heading back to the kitchen, his hair still dripping.

He found John talking to a phone so that the man's back was turned towards him. Still the tension was very much visible. "… I'm fine, Mary. It's all… hard but I'm fine. So just focus on yourself and the baby, yeah? And tell her to stay exactly where she is until I get there."

There were a few more, quiet words of affection but Sherlock's head was too busy to catch any of them. Worry and guilt both began to stir and the mixture tasted unpleasant on his tongue. "Is Mary alright?"

If John was startled by his sudden appearance the former soldier didn't show it. There was a brief, absentminded nod and for a long time Sherlock imagined that there'd be nothing further. "She just… worries." Very quickly a pair of blue eyes swept towards him while the doctor cleared his throat. "This is the first funeral I'll go to since…" The rest faded away, which didn't make it any less loud. _Since yours._

Sherlock shifted wih a great deal of discomfort. He knew that a yet another 'I'm sorry' wouldn't change a thing after all the ones that he'd uttered already. But still…

"So…" John clapped his hands together. As though out of nowhere a ridiculously large beef sandwich materialized. "Now you're going to eat this before we get going. I'll make Spencer eat one, too, if I can make him stop pacing for long enough."

* * *

Visiting the funeral home most definitely wasn't easy on Spencer. Choosing a coffin for his mother, sealing the arrangements… And all of this in the presence of two borderline strangers, of which one was supposed to be his brother. Only sheer willpower kept him from breaking down.

Sherlock didn't exactly make any of it easier. After an onslaught of cutting deductions and remarks it was a small wonder that the place's owner, a kind looking man in his late fifties, didn't fill one of the coffins with the detective. Mostly it was owing to John's apologies and impressive attention diversion techniques.

Finally, after what felt like decades although it wasn't even two hours, the ordeal was over. All three of them were exhausted and on the edge while they packed up into a car. John, the least likely to get them all killed, volunteered to do the driving. Stunningly even Sherlock voiced no objections. Instead the tall Brit folded his arms with a sulking expression and seemed to slide into a world of his own.

Spencer was so deep in thought that he jolted when his cell-phone began to ring. The moment he saw who the caller was a slash of cold crossed his entire body. He had no desire to listen to this person, especially now.

By the time the phone began to ring for the fifth time Sherlock groaned. "Two options, Spencer. Either you pick up or I throw that out the window."

Spencer sighed and glanced towards the phone's screen. '_William Reid_' was still flashing there, as though taunting him. "Yeah?"

"_Where were you? Never mind, never mind._" Did the older man sound panicked? "_Is Sherlock with you?_"

Spencer frowned. Alarm bells were ringing painfully loudly in his ears. "Yes. Why?"

William sighed heavily. Like someone preparing for a marathon. "_Look… You two should come to a hospital, right now. It's about Mycroft._"

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oooooh, crap… (winces) It seems that things are not heading towards prettier. Or maybe this leads to something that brings the brothers at least a tiny bit closer to each other. Let's just hope that they all make it through alive and well.

Thoughts? Comments? Threats…? There's a cute box down below if you'd like to drop a line or two.

I've reeeeeeally gotta go. Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll all join in for that one.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: There indeed seems to be much more to that guy than would first seem. Go him, protecting his child!

Huge thank yous for the review!


	11. To Make an Omelette…

A/N: Just a few minutes past midnight and thus late, but still… Update time! (grins)

First of all, THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for your absolutely amazing reviews and all the listings! It baffles me that so many of you have joined this mad ride. Thank you!

Awkay, before I get all mushy… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

To Make an Omelette…

* * *

/ _It was the single most horrible day of Mycroft's life so far. And every time he fell asleep, especially when they started giving him the pills, he was stuck in it over and over again. It came back to haunt him. Played on an endless loop._

_'_Mommy! Mommy please, come out! Mommy…!_'_

_'_… stop that…! Get away that door, alright?…_'_

_'_DON'T TOUCH HIM!_'_

_Mycroft screamed, howled, in both the dream and upon waking up. They injected him with something but he barely noticed. No amount of drugs was enough to erase the memory. He sunk under feeling so heavy that he wondered if this time the ghosts of the past would finally tear him all the way down. _/

* * *

/ _They made a deal, the two of them. And Sherlock took deals very seriously, even those he made while he was barely conscious. So he struggled through the intense, annoying and absolutely awful rehab. Every day was pure hell with the dull staff, even worse other patients and withdrawal symptoms that thereatened to drive him insane. But he trekked through it because that was what they agreed on with Mycroft._

_You fight, I fight._

_However, when he was discharged Mycroft wasn't there. Apparently his brother was still 'receiving the help that he needed' somewhere out there, far away. No one would tell Sherlock where, exactly. And no visitors were allowed._

_Their adoptive mother gave him a sad smile that was supposed to be reassuring. It came out horribly wrong. "He just needs time, sweetie. He'll be okay."_

_Sherlock couldn't even write letters because he didn't have the slightest clue where to send them. He couldn't visit because he didn't know where to go and even if he did he wasn't welcome. And for what felt like ages the 'he'll be okay' was all he had. A lie, all of it._

_Because the young man who came back wasn't the same Mycroft he last saw at the hospital._ /

* * *

The trio's arrival to the hospital was nothing short of a chaos. It took absolutely all of John's skills to keep Sherlock from attacking anyone and to keep the staff from resulting to removing the detective forcefully. Spencer, the most collected and least preoccupied of them, was the one to get some actual answers after announcing that he was the patient's brother.

The doctor in charge over Mycroft's care, Stanza according to his nametag, seemed absolutely exhausted. "He's dehydrated and malnourished. It was exhaustion, however, that made him crash. He's going to be here overnight and he'll have to take it easy for a while but he should be alright." The man fidgeted restlessly. "I… hate to ask this, but… Does your brother have a history with a eating disorder?"

Spencer felt an actual jolt inside and it took all his skills to keep the shock from showing on his face. He was sadly convinced that he didn't succeed very well, anyway. Very quickly and subtly his eyes met Sherlock's. It was more than enough to confirm his hypothesis. "No", he lied stunningly smoothly. Yes, they'd have to confront this issue someday very soon but not now when the government official had more than enough pressure on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry but I'm not buying that." The American doctor's green eyes were suddenly free of all fatigue, instead they gazed at him sharp and full of alert. "An eating disorder leaves traces to a body. Based on the tests we ran such has been more or less a part of his life since he was a teenager." Clearly the doctor saw something on his face because the man's eyes filled with sympathy. "I'll hazard a guess that this isn't his first relapse?"

"It's the fifth." Sherlock fought hard to keep his emotions in check, that much was obvious. But this, all of this… It was just too much of strain. The detective, who'd finally stopped tormenting the three nurses surrounding him, looked like a trapped and injured wild animal. "The second in a couple of years."

Dr. Stanza looked surprised. And then a great deal of discomfort rolled to the man's expression. "That's right." The American doctor looked at them all, clearly wondering if the brothers were ready to hear this. "Based on the test results there has been a period of at least a year and a half during which he… hasn't been taking care of himself. His body had just started to recover before this new relapse."

Spencer saw John's eyes widen and Sherlock's whole body jerk with something beyond shock. And all of a sudden he wondered if there was something that he was missing. Before he could ask a thing, however, Sherlock spun around in a motion that was nothing short of furious and stormed off, leaving the rest of them staring at his retreating back.

Deciding that brother number two could wait for a while Spencer shifted his attention back to Dr. Stanza. "So… He'll be alright?" Because thinking about any other alternative…

Dr. Stanza nodded with a sigh. "With some rest and fluids, yes. But he does need proper help before his body suffers worse damage than it already has. I'll suggest him a psychiatric consultation once he wakes up."

John winced and Spencer shared the sentiment. Sure, he hadn't known Mycroft for a very long time. But even he could tell that the government official wouldn't be thrilled by that particular suggestion.

Spencer took a deep breath, surprised to discover that his chest felt a lot tighter than it should've. "Can I go and see him?" Because somehow he just couldn't imagine letting Mycroft wake up all alone.

Dr. Stanza nodded. "Of course. He already has one visitor, though."

Spencer felt a tremor of dread. Before wasting a second he started off towards the given direction. What he found upon entering the room made him freeze.

It wasn't only because Mycroft looked impossibly frail and small, lay there unconscious attached on several tubes and monitors. What truly made his breath catch into his throat was the other visitor. The pretty much last person he wanted to see.

Sitting beside Mycroft's bed was William Reid.

* * *

It didn't take John very long to find Sherlock. He'd known the sleuth well long enough to figure out the most logical places where to start looking. The correct spot was number three on his list.

Sherlock stood outside the hospital with a frown on his face. Exactly the same amount of steps separated the taller man from the builging and the road. It was very obvious what struggle raged in the detective's incredible mind.

To run away or to face it all?

John took a couple of paces closer, like someone approaching a dangerous wild being. He swallowed hard, considering his words very carefully. "He'll be fine, Sherlock."

"Of course he'll be fine!" Sherlock barked back instantly. 'Fight' beginning to take over 'flight'. Soothingly familiar rage overpowering other, much more painful and complex emotions. "I've seen all of this before. Shut up and stop stating the obvious."

John felt a sharp stab of sympathy when pieces began to collide in his head. '_Five times_', Sherlock said. And the man most likely had to watch through them all, powerless to do anything. For someone like Sherlock such helplessness… The guilt… And then it hit him, sharp as a bolt of lightning. Something that the doctor said.

'… _there has been a period of at least a year and a half_ …'

Sherlock's fall…

Of course Sherlock had been able to do the math as well. Probably saw it or heard it the second he faced his older brother for the first time since the beginning of his lonely mission. The weight of that discovery was still heavy on the tall Brit's painfully tense shoulders.

John swallowed again, the sympathy from before swelling to a painful extend once more. "Sherlock…" It took longer than it should've before he managed to squeeze out anything more. "It wasn't your fault", he pointed out in a quiet voice that he hoped somehow penetrated his friend's unhealthily thick skull.

Sherlock's body trembled, only for a second but just long enough for him to be able to spot it. The man gritted his teeth so hard that it must've hurt like hell. "I'm a grown man, John. Don't insult me with those pitiable pep-talks." Then, so swiftly that John might've imagined it, the detective wiped his eyes and began to march back to the hospital with long, heavy and determined strides. "Now let's get back inside. This rain is infuriating."

John blinked several times, staring at his friend's distancing back. Then, very slowly, his gaze turned towards the sky where the sun was shining. There wasn't a trace of rain in sight.

* * *

At first William and Spencer only stared at each other, as though not quite believing that the other was there. Eventually the older man gulped loudly. "You know, don't you?"

"Yes." Spencer's voice was a lot more bitter than he'd intended. "I know everything. I've even met… _him_."

William sighed, his shoulders slumping. "That was what I tried to come and tell you", the man explained in a miserable tone that didn't really tug at Spencer's heartstrings. "Back when Mycroft…"

"… threw you out?" Spencer filled in. Acid lazed his tongue and a part of his mind flashed back to when he accused this very man on being a murderer. How was it that this felt so much worse? Hurt so much more? He nodded. "I get it, now."

William winced. Very slowly who used to be his father began to lift himself from the uncomfortable chair. "Spencer…!"

Spencer shook his head furiously. "No. You… You left me, us all. And I… I might've even forgiven you for that, you know?" There was no humor in his chuckle and his eyes didn't feel dry. "Time and time again… You never chose me. Us. Not when it counted. You never fought for us." It was getting hard to breathe. "A serial killer was more of a father than you ever were! What does that say about you?"

A few tears rolled down William's cheeks. The man took several hesitant steps closer. "Spencer, please…!"

"Get… away from him."

The new voice startled them both. With stun they discovered that the commotion had managed to wake up Mycroft. The government official was pale and, as much as the man himself definitely hated it, fragile. But those eyes and that expression, that tone of a voice… Without a doubt it could've commanded an army. Spencer didn't think that he'd ever seen such rage.

William blanched. The man's hands twitched with hesitation. "Calm down, Mycroft."

His biological father's hesitant tone only seemed to add fuel to Mycroft's fire. The Brit's eyes narrowed. "Get away from here. Right now." It was full of nothing but sheer conviction and steel. "Leave us alone. And if you ever approach any of us again… I'll make sure that you're never seen or heard of again."

Shock paralyzed William for a few moments. But quite soon the man seemed to realize that yes, his son certainly meant every single word. After a one more pleading glance the man finally walked away, an aura of defeat surrounding him. Spencer was almost sure that he'd never see the man again. And it didn't make him feel a thing.

Wounds that have scarred years, decades, ago don't hurt anymore.

Slowly, struggling to bring his pulse and breathing pattern back to normal, Spencer focused on Mycroft. For a few more moments the older man remained on alert, staring at the door like a hawk with both of his fists balled so tightly that knuckles had turned white. The threat didn't return and slowly exhaustion won over as adrenaline left the government official's system. With a heavy, shuddering sigh and drooping eyelids the man fell back against his pillow, breathing hard.

Spencer frowned and shifted with discomfort. He didn't like the couple of irregular beeps the heart monitor gave. "Are you okay?" There was so much more he would've wanted to say, to ask, but perhaps for now that'd do.

Mycroft nodded feebly. For three more seconds the man's eyes remained on the door, before making their way towards him and scanned him from head to toe. Then, so abruptly that it startled Spencer, Mycroft's eyes fell closed and the man seemed to fall asleep.

Spencer could only stare and stand right where he was, his head spinning while he attempted to comprehend what exactly just happened.

* * *

The two, of course, couldn't know that in the hallway, safely out of everyone's sight yet well close enough to hear, Sherlock stood leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes were wide and his supposedly nonexistent heart was hammering madly while a crushing wave of new data coursed through his Mind Palace. Almost enough of it to overload his hard-drive.

His legs were barely in the condition to carry his weight but that didn't stop him. By the time he sneaked into the room, quietly as a thief, Spencer had also fallen asleep on the chair William occupied. For a few moments he stood there, feeling uncharacteristically lost, until his eyes spotted another chair on the other side of the bed. He'd slumped on it before he'd fully decided what he wanted to do, his transport clearly deciding that he wasn't about to go any further.

And if Sherlock's hand was laid on the bed mere millimetres from Mycroft's and if Mycroft's unconscious face relaxed visibly only the nurse that came to check up on the oldest brother would have to know. Briefly a smile touched her lips but then Sherlock's eyes spotted her. A single glare from him convinced her that it might be a good idea to move on to her other patients.

* * *

Mycroft didn't know how long he'd been out. But as soon as his mind began to drift back towards the waken world he could tell that he wasn't alone. For a moment he listened, some subconscious part of him preparing for a threat. Eventually he risked to open his eyes halfway. What he discovered made him blink several times.

Sherlock and Spencer were fast asleep on either side of his bed. As though keeping watch. Mycroft found it… oddly touching, almost.

Mycroft shivered and bounced to a sitting position far faster than his head approved, both fists clenched, when someone entered the room. It took several moments before he managed to relax after discovering that it was John. There was a look he didn't quite manage to read on the doctor's face. Anger? Worry? Relief? Frustration? Guilt? Disappointment? "Hey. You've been out of it for quite a while. How are you feeling?"

Mycroft decided that he was too tired for lying. His fingers twitched impatiently. "When am I going to be discharged?"

John emitted something between a groan and a sigh. "They only dared to take you off a heart monitor two hours ago and you're still on I.V. So I'd say that you're not going anywhere just yet." The doctor then fixed a look that was both stone hard and tender on him. "So… Now I know why wanted me to come along. You knew that you're on a relapse and somewhere in that impossible, infuriating… Holmesian brain of yours you realized that you needed help."

Mycroft looked away. He made sure that his brothers were sound asleep and felt his painfully tense body relax just a little bit when he was convinced that they were out cold. He did _not_ want them to hear this.

"One of the nurses told me that you threw William out. And I know that you were with him when you collapsed." John sounded worried rather than curious. Enough and earnestly enough so to make several mental barriers shudder. "Why did you go to see him?"

Mycroft's jawline tightened. His eyes were on Sherlock's sleeping form while he answered in a voice that he couldn't recognize. "Because I'm not going to let him hurt either one of them ever again."

"What?" John took a little time before continuing. "But… Wasn't it your mother who…?" The rest faded away.

"Sometimes her… symptoms got out of control." Mycroft swallowed against the bile that rose into his throat. His fingers squeezed the bedsheet convulsively. "Sherlock doesn't remember it anymore but… Back then, before we were taken away… It was William who punched Sherlock and broke my arm."

* * *

Erik Collins knew that his time was running out. But as he opened his eyes at the sounds of steps approaching his cell he knew full well that it wasn't the time of his execution yet. The perfectly legal kind, anyway.

Apparently someone had gotten sick of waiting, or perhaps someone wasn't willing to take any risks.

Slowly and calmly he stood up, well in time to face the arrival. Somehow his tall frame managed to be perfectly relaxed and on full alert at the same time. His fingers danced in the empty air, like those of a pianist at work.

That was when he recognized the scent lingering in the air. A small, ice cold smile rose to his lips. Over his long, impressive career he'd had two colleagues whose scent he'd learned to recognize. One of them wore Clair de la Lune. The other this very different product.

The person stood at the doorway wore a guard's uniform. Erik knew far better because he recognized the face staring back at him very well. "Well", he stated. "I was wondering when you'd come and visit."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Now that was emotional! (sighs)

Sooooooooo… Any good, at all? Drop a line to the box down below to let me know.

I've reeeeeeeally gotta start heading towards the bed. So, until next time, guys! I really hope that I'll see you all there.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: I'm horrible, aren't I? (winces) I really hope that what's to come turns out worth the wait.

Huge thank yous for the review!

* * *

**Guest (2)**: Awww, don't worry, I couldn't be THAT cruel. I'm THRILLED to hear that you enjoyed the chapter so much!

Massive thank yous for the review!

* * *

**lay**: Heh, since you ask so kindly. (grins) I'm thrilled that you've liked the story thus far!

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	12. Idiot's Guide to Brotherly Bonding

A/N: It's Sunday, which means that it's also an update day. (BEAMS) But, before moving along with the story…

THANK YOU, so, so much, for your reviews and support! How you all found your way to this story is beyond me. But I'm really happy that you did! (hugs)

Awkay, before I get all mushy on you… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Idiot's Guide to Brotherly Bonding

* * *

/ _When Mycroft first came back home it was more or less a mutual agreement that the young man would settle into his adoptive parents' house. They'd nearly lost both of their children. There was no way they'd let either one out of their sight now._

_Mycroft slept. A lot. Which alone was worrying to Sherlock who knew that his brother had never needed much rest. Yet whenever his brother emerged from his old room he appeared pale and utterly exhausted. The man wasn't sickly thin anymore but that was the about only positive change Sherlock was able to pinpoint. Mycroft had never been much of a talker but as it was the man could've been mistaken for being mute._

_Stubborn and determined as always, Sherlock pulled every trick he could think of to lure Mycroft out of that horrible haze. Mycroft took his antics with a remarkable amount of patience. But everyone has a limit. And for the big brother that came when he caught Sherlock visiting the teen's secret stash in the house's basement floor._

_At first Mycroft simply stared with eyes that Sherlock could faintly recall facing when he woke up after his overdose. "Sherlock, what is this?" With two strides and a single fluid motion the man had taken the wooden box that contained his stash and hurled it at a wall. "How stupid are you? You were getting better!"_

_Sherlock snorted. It ended up sounding a little moist, which he would've hated if he'd paid any mind. "Oh, I should get better? Like you? At least I'm facing the world instead of running away and shutting everything out whenever it's convenient for me."_

_The visible shudder was the only warning he got. "Get out, Sherlock." It was said in such a voice that would've chilled anyone to their bones. Mycroft refused to look at him. The man was actually trembling from effort to hold back what looked like a hurricane. "Get… out… of my sight. Right now. Before I say or do something that I'll regret."_

_Sherlock knew that he was playing a dangerous game. But he was too angry and, frankly, desperate to hold himself back. His eyes focused on his brother's trembling fists. "Or what? You'll hit me like William did?"_

_Finally Mycroft looked at him. And in a flash Sherlock realized, with a stab like flash of certainty, that'd he'd just uttered something irreversible. The blank mask that the older brother had worn was definitely gone. At first there was such hurt, shock and anguish that it would've broken anyone's heart. And then wounded rage that cut even deeper. "GET OUT!"_

_This time Sherlock didn't hesitate. And for once he didn't even try to get the last word because nothing would've undone what just slipped from his mouth. He pretended that he didn't hear the sounds of something crashing hard and breaking._

_On his way out Sherlock passed by their adoptive parents. Based on their shocked expressions they hadn't missed the commotion. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He never knew of the tears welling in them. "That place where you sent him was supposed to fix him! They were supposed to help him! Those idiots wrecked everything!"_

_Upon leaving Sherlock heard his name being called but he didn't care. By the time he came back late that night the door of Mycroft's room was firmly closed. For a while Sherlock contemplated letting his brother know that he was still sober. Instead cowardice won and he slipped into his own room._

_The following day Mycroft left yet again, announcing that the arrangement just wasn't working for him anymore. And he needed to continue with his studies because he was too far behind already. The brothers exchanged barely a word before parting ways. For the second time in his life Sherlock watched their adoptive father drive Mycroft away. And for the first time he began to realize that things would never be the same._ /

* * *

/ _During the nine months they shared an apartment Spencer didn't see much of his roommate. He was busy with studies and Jim seemed to be as well because the man was hardly ever in. Sometimes Spencer wondered why Jim bothered to pay the rent._

_It was already rather late in the evening when Spencer came home from a long and exhausting but exciting day of working on his thesis. He blinked with surprise upon discovering that the lights were on. "Jim?" he called out. "Are you home?"_

_"On my way out." Jim's voice came from his right so unexpectedly that he shivered. The man was pulling on a long, black coat. "I'm in the mood for some Chinese. Are you hungry?"_

_Spencer shook his head, his senses still on alert. It was absolutely ridiculous but something just felt… off. "Not really. I think I'll go bed." He stretched and headed towards his room. "See you in the morning."_

_"Yeah. See you." Just before opening the door Jim added, almost as though in a sudden afterthought. "Oh, and Spencer? It's James, not Jim."_

_By the time Spencer peered over his shoulder with a frown of confusion his flatmate had already left._ /

* * *

Spencer frowned while waking up, unable to remember the dream he'd just been having. There was still some cold sweat lingering on his skin and his pulse was elevated, which were clear signs that the dream had been intense. So what…?

"You alright?" Sherlock's voice surprised him. As did the fact that the detective was still there. The man's sharp eyes were focused on a newspaper but they flickered towards both him and Mycroft, who was sleeping soundly. "You were whimpering in your sleep."

For a few moments Spencer was too stunned to react. Then, slowly, a smile appeared to his lips. "Yeah, I'm fine." He nodded towards Mycroft. "Is he?"

Sherlock shrugged. The detective's shoulders seemed painfully tense. "Sleeping. It's getting incredibly dull." Those words were harsh but there were a million things hidden underneath them. A weight that'd been born out of so much more than just worry.

Spencer sighed although it ended up sounding more like a yawn. "He needs the rest", he pointed out gently. And really, the sleep and hospital care seemed to have done miracles. There was a little more color on the government official's face. The same couldn't be said about Sherlock. "You should go and get some rest, too."

"I'm perfectly fine", Sherlock bit out. "I'm not going anywhere yet." Seeming to sense his confusion the younger Brit went on in a dry tone. "Mycroft isn't a model patient. As soon as he can walk more than five steps without collapsing he'll attempt to leave."

Spencer couldn't stop the small smile that appeared to his lips. "That sounds familiar." He sighed, glancing at the depressingly white and sterile room around him. "I can't say that I blame him, though. I hate hospitals."

All of a sudden Sherlock's full attention was on him. The man's eyes grew sharper and more alert, seeing far more than they should've. "You seem to have experience." The gaze flickered on him for a couple of more seconds. "Your breathing doesn't sound quite right when you're in a great deal of physical or emotional strain, indicating a past severe respiratory distress. And you limp a little when you're too tired. Both of those are signs of prolonged hospital visits."

For a few moments Spencer stared. Perhaps he should've been offended. Or at least taken aback. Instead a small grin made its way to his face. For the first time he was able to imagine that maybe, just maybe, they were brothers, after all. "That was pretty incredible."

Sherlock shrugged. This time it seemed a little less stiff than before. "Basic deductions, really. You would've been able to pull off similar." The sleuth looked at his restlessly drumming fingers, seeming aware of the fact that his own were moving in a nearly identical pattern. Traces of ghosts that they'd fought very, very hard to leave behind. "We… may have more in common than I first concluded."

Spencer's smile grew. He even dared to say that he felt warmer than before although the room's uncomfortably cool temperature remained unchanged. "Maybe we started on the wrong foot", he suggested.

Sherlock didn't respond, which wasn't a huge surprise. They sat in a remarkably comfortable silence. Both of them guarding Mycroft's rest although the middle brother would've never admitted it, Spencer just thinking and Sherlock pretending to read the newspaper that was upside down.

Eventually Spencer decided that they needed a little distraction. "It may take a while before he wakes up again. That visit from Dr. Barton took a lot out of him." He didn't know what words were exchanged between the doctor and Mycroft. But she left with her face deathly pale and the government official had been asleep in a matter of seconds. Spencer contemplated for a bit. "Do you play poker?"

Sherlock snorted. "I refuse to play cards with someone who grew up in Las Vegas." The man mused for a while. "Do you think they have 'Operation' here?" Seeing his stun the detective rolled his eyes. "Do close your mouth. I'm bored. If I don't get something to do soon I'll go to the morgue and experiment on the bodies."

A second ticked by. Then another. "What?"

* * *

At first John worried that perhaps Sherlock might run away entirely after Mycroft's hospitalization and the onslaught of guilt it obviously triggered. And then, a couple of days later, he feared that Sherlock might end up as a patient himself. Just like during cases the detective refused to eat or sleep. Or to leave the room much, for the matter. As was to be expected over the past couple of days the Brit had started getting on the hospital staff's nerves. At this point John wasn't sure which one was a greater threat on Sherlock, the man himself or the nurses.

So as John approached Mycroft's hospital room, returning from a few hours of sleep and a phone call to Mary, he expected to find a lot of things and few of them were pleasant. He expected just about anything, really, but what faced him when he opened the room's door. It took all he had to hold back a gasp.

Sitting firmly beside a still sleeping Mycroft's bed like it was a regular thing Sherlock and Spencer were solving what appeared to be a massive book of crossword puzzles. Few words were exchanged, in fact most of the talking came in the form of gruff growls and excited little hums. Still the two worked in a seamless unison, two hands moving at a incredible speed on the book's pages. Two baffling minds supporting each other perfectly. Of course they hadn't become the closest of brothers in overnight. But having something of common interest to focus on, something that filled them with _that_ level of determination…

Maybe the time of miracles wasn't over yet.

For a few more seconds John remained, marveling the sight that he couldn't have imagined even in his wildest dreams. Then, careful not to disturb the frail air of peace in the room, he closed the door and walked away. Perhaps they'd have something in the cafeteria that didn't smell like the promise of a food poisoning.

* * *

It was pure madness, all of it. And if Spencer had actually allowed himself to think about it he might've lost his mind. Everything from his mother's death, the revelation of his real father and the arrival of his brothers kept spinning around his head in a big mess. Surreal, all of it. But perhaps something good might still prevail.

Spencer emerged from his thoughts when Mycroft appeared, having signed all the papers necessary to be discharged against his doctor's advice. Although the man himself claimed that he was sick and tired of the hospital environment Spencer suspected that the desire to get out had much more to do with Diana's impending funeral. The agent understood, even if he didn't necessarily approve.

"Are you sure that you're alright to leave?" Spencer inquired while they made their way towards his car. Sure, Mycroft looked a lot better than right after being admitted. But the man was clearly by no means healthy.

"I'm perfectly fine", Mycroft announced as they packed up into the vehicle. And it sounded like the man might've meant it. "Or well, at least I will be. As alright as anyone in our family can be."

Spencer couldn't help but smile a little at that one. He had a psychiatric patient for a mother and a recently executed contract killer for a biological father, an utter failure for a stepfather and two geniuses who just possibly weren't sociopaths for brothers. And what sort of an addition did he make? "When one of us has children we'll have a lot of explaining to do."

Mycroft shrugged. Was that… the beginning of a smirk? "At least they won't have boring childhoods."

Spencer chuckled, coming to a conclusion that there just wasn't anything he could add to that.

They'd been driving for quite a while in a pleasant silence until Spencer spoke once more. "Sherlock wanted to come along. He never admitted it out loud, of course, but I know he did. Both John and I agreed that it wouldn't have been a good idea. I think the hospital staff was already ganging up to maul him."

Mycroft's eyes softened a little, most likely without the man noticing. "Well. Sherlock tends to have that affect on people."

"He's been worried", Spencer revealed without processing it further. As soon as the words left his mouth he wondered how much more he could blurt out. "I know that he acts like you're his… arch enemy, or something like that. But he cares about you a lot."

Mycroft sighed, looking out the window. It took a while before the Brit's voice murmured barely audibly. "That's always been his problem. When he cares he cares too much."

_Seems to run in the family._ Spencer bit his lip to keep those words to himself. Instead he focused on the road ahead.

As soon as they entered the house where Spencer and Diana used to live they could smell something burning. Or rotting. It was hard to tell which. "What…?"

Before the question could be finished John rushed by, carrying a fire extinguisher. "I only left him alone for ten bloody minutes while I went grocery shopping. I swear! Apparently he decided to try cooking." There was a suffering look on the smaller man's face. "He's fine, even though his ego was bruised. But I wouldn't set foot into the kitchen for a few hours."

Muttering something very, very dark under his breath Spencer ignored John's advice and rushed towards the kitchen as well. These new additions to his family were going to be the death of him. It was disturbing how little he minded.

* * *

Mycroft took advantage of the distraction and retreated to a further part of the house. He had a very important phone-call to make and he didn't want the others to hear it. Even after closing the door he waited for a few moments to be sure that there were no approaching steps until he dialed the familiar numbers.

Erik Collins had destroyed or come close to destroying far too many eyes. He knew that the man's execution had taken place during his hospitalization. Still, he needed to make sure. Because there was a tingling sensation of dread on his skin that wouldn't go away.

He expected to hear Conrad Winston's voice. Instead the one who picked up was a woman who sounded like she'd been crying. "_Hello?_"

Mycroft tensed up. A million electric jolts of alarm crossed him all at once, striking him numb and cold. "I… was trying to reach Conrad Winston."

There was a moment of confusion, followed by what could've been a sob or a gasp. "_Oh… my gosh, Mycroft…!_" And then, finally, he recognized her voice. "_It's been ages…_"

Mycroft swallowed, feeling dizzy for a second while the memories came flooding in. How she sounded and how her body felt during those secret nights they spent together, long before she ended up together with Conrad. Their very own little secret… "It has", he agreed, barely recognizing his voice. He then frowned, using all his professionalism to snap himself out of those days that were long since gone. Something was wrong. She wasn't the type to cry easily. "Are you alright?"

There was a long pause, during which she managed to regain some of her composure. Which didn't make the verbal bomb that fell any easier to take. "_I was supposed to call you._" She gulped hard. "_Conrad… He's dead. He killed himself this morning._"

* * *

/ _Erik Collins' prison cell was like something ripped out of a horror movie. The blood and other, even more disturbing splatters were one thing. The body was another._

_Whoever did the bastard in left nothing of the face intact._

_Conrad Winston took a deep breath even though his chest felt so tight that it was nearly impossible. He was the head of the prison. For the past few hours everyone had been asking him questions that he just couldn't answer._

_How was it possible that someone sneaked into a maximum security prison and managed to kill one of the prisoners along with two guards?_

_Now, nine hours later, the questions had finally stopped. Or maybe they were just asked behind his back. Conrad still stood by the now empty cell, staring at the blood. Even though the body had been taken away long since he could remember it in vivid detail. He remembered the bodies of the guards as well. He didn't think that he'd ever be able to not remember._

_"I just finished digging through the security footage." The sudden voice of a CIA-agent, Jenny Rhyes, managed to startle him. Her blue eyes were sharper than anything he'd ever seen. Combined with her radiant red hair they created a spectacular sight. "What's visible is a hooded figure, most likely male, approaching the building. Then every single camera is switched off for fifteen minutes."_

_Well, that explained why Sears and Kimmel, the guards, seemed to have been on a frantic move before their deaths. Of course they were alarmed by the malfunctioning security footage. Conrad shivered and nodded stiffly, a foul taste rising into his mouth. "How did that happen?"_

_"That's what my team and I are trying to find out."_

_Conrad nodded again, a heavy weight landing on his shoulders. He glanced towards the agent. "So… CIA, huh?"_

_"Yes." She offered no further explanations. At least immediately. She glanced around and waited until a csi passed by before daring to speak again. "Look… Breaking into a prison like this should be impossible. We have every reason to suspect involvement from the inside. So, if I were you… I'd be pretty careful with who I trust."_

_Another hour later Conrad made his way to his office and closed the door firmly. It took a mighty while before he felt calm enough to make the phone call. "Is she safe?" he demanded instantly._

_"_What? No 'hello'? I'm insulted._"_ S_ensing that more was required the one he called sighed with boredom. "_Fine, alright. She's safe. And I've got the press under control so for now this is our own little secret. Just like we agreed. Don't you trust me at all?_"_

_"No", Conrad admitted instantly. He did feel just a little bit better. But nothing could've erased the ton's weight sitting on his shoulders._

_"_Well, I can't exactly fault you on that_", the other chuckled._

_Conrad licked his lips. His heart was still beating too fast and his head was starting to hurt. "What about Collins? Did you kill him?"_

_"_You really want him dead, don't you?_"_ _And that was all the answer he'd get. "_If I were you, I'd worry a lot more about that CIA-agent headed your way._"_ _There was some sort of commotion which earned an impatient groan from the other. "_Now, as it is I'm quite busy. Have a great day, Mr. Winston. It was a pleasure doing business with you._" With that and the sound of a gunshot the phone call was over._

_And Conrad realized that he just sold his soul to the devil._ /

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Oh crap… This won't be good. This won't be good AT ALL. (winces) Well, at least it seems that the brothers are finally STARTING TO get along. As much as they possibly could, anyway…

Soooo… Thoughts? Comments? PLEASE, do let me know. I'd love to hear from you.

Oh, and a **very important note on the future of this story**. SO, right now the plot is branching so that I see a sequel as the most fluent option. Which means that there's… about three more chapters of this story left, then a sequel that dives into a bit different waters. And we'll see if the brothers keep getting along or kill each other. How does that sound to you? And, before I forget… **The potential sequel would be rated M.** I've gotta warn you, it's not an empty rating. Those of you who have read my former work know how brutal I can get with the WHUMP.

Until next time, ya all! 'Hope I'll see you all there.

Take care!


	13. Demons of the Past

A/N: It's SUUUUUUUNDAY! I really, honestly feared that I wouldn't manage an update today but here I am. (BEAMS) First, though…

THANK YOU, a million times, for your AMAZING reviews, listings and support! You guys are fantastic. Hugs to you all!

Awkay, because the clock is ticking and I don't really have any time to waste… Let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

Demons of the Past

* * *

/ _Since their fight after Mycroft's return the brothers barely saw each other. Sure, there were awkward Christmas dinners and brief encounters in social occasions that their adoptive mother insisted they'd attend to. They barely talked and only knew of each other what their adoptive parents forced them to listen._

_That was until Mycroft ended up to a hospital with a gunshot wound to the chest._

_Without as much as thinking Sherlock burst in, the fact that he wasn't strictly speaking sober be damned. His head was in such a chaos that he had no idea what the ruling thoughts were. They all, as well as his transport, froze close to the hospital room. Apparently he wasn't his brother's only visitor._

_Behind the massive glass window that separated the ICU-room from the hallway stood a man and a woman. Instantly Sherlock's attention locked on the woman. One of his eyebrows bounced up, the something close to panic threatening to take over all of him briefly forgotten._

_She was beautiful, there was no way around it. Pretty much perfect features, large brown eyes, long hair that looked like flames… The color, along with the blood on her clothes and her bruises, made her look like a warrior even if she was short and thin. She'd been crying and she was obviously terrified. But she was also utterly exhausted and fed up. "… can't keep doing this anymore, Conrad. Watching members of my team get shot and killed…"_

_The man shifted with discomfort and gulped. "He's a stubborn bastard. Thea, he'll be fine…"_

_"I just watched five of us get carried out of there in body bags", she hissed back. Her eyes grew misty for a moment before she blinked it away. "And… It's pure luck that he didn't become number six. If I didn't get there when I did…" She wiped her eyes. "One day he's going to run out of luck. He's going to take a risk that he can't come back from, that I can't save his sorry ass from, and… I can't be there to see it happen. I've lost too many and I can't lose him, too." Her hand went instinctively to her stomach. The limb had a new tremor to it._

_Conrad seemed to notice, too. His eyes filled with sadness. "Thea…! When did you…?"_

_"I started spotting while I was there, pressing my hands as hard as I could at his chest and trying to keep him from bleeding out on me. I had it confirmed an hour ago." Her eyes narrowed but the sheer agony in them was palpable. "I only found out a few days ago and he has no idea. Don't you dare tell him. It's enough that one of us is grieving something that we never really had."_

_Wordless, Conrad wrapped his arms around her. She resisted for a moment but in the end melted to the embrace, her body shaking from soundless sobs._

_Sherlock stared for a very long time. Then, without making a sound, sped away. He didn't answer his phone when his adoptive parents tried to call and tell him that Mycroft might not make it through the night. Or when they tried to tell him that his brother's heart just stopped for the second time. Or when they tried to announce that Mycroft was just about to regain consciousness. Sherlock couldn't bear seeing his brother run out of luck, either. He'd also lost too many people._ /

* * *

John would've never known to expect that Diana Reid's funeral would be so well-attended. At least fifty people had showed up as a response to Spencer's open invitation to pay their respects. Former students and colleagues, some very few and mostly distant members of family, friends, former fellow patients, doctors and nurses… Diana had been mentally ill for a very long time but, based on what John gathered from Spencer, during her lucid hours she was a wonderful and spectacularly intelligent woman. It shouldn't have been a surprise that she'd touched some of the people she met. John was glad that William Reid didn't appear because he wasn't sure what he would've done at the sight of the man's face. Or what the grieving brothers would've done, for the matter.

Under different circumstances John might've found it endearing how the brothers sat together, huddled just a little bit closer than would've been acutely necessary. As though seeking comfort from one another. It'd been some sort of a silent agreement that there wouldn't be any speeches from them, or the other guests, for the matter. Spencer claimed that he wasn't much of a talker and there was no point in giving people stuff to gossip about with announcing the two other brothers to those present who didn't know. And so they listened to the words of a wrinkle faced, accurately sad-looking priest in his late fifties.

"We have gathered here on this beautiful day with a great deal of grief", the man began in a deep, smooth voice that echoed in the large space. "Diana was taken from us at a much too young age. But although her life was cut short and greatly troubled it was by no means an empty or bad one. She experienced a great deal of both joy and sorrow. She always lived her life to the fullest, wherever she was. And she had enough time to touch a lot of hearts, which is why there are so many of us here." The minister held a pause and exchanged a look of deep sympathy with Spencer, who seemed to be struggling to keep himself together. "She had enough time to make her time on Earth count. And that is why we're here not only to mourn the loss of her, but also to celebrate her life."

The man kept talking but John heard none of it. Because just then he noticed how badly Sherlock was shaking where the younger man sat, face even paler than usual. Neither of them was much for physical contact but at that moment the doctor just couldn't restrain himself. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, closing it to what he hoped to be a comforting, grounding squeeze. It spoke volumes of his friend's state of mind that after a few seconds the violinist's long fingers held back, so hard that it hurt. John didn't care about the discomfort. Instead he held on tighter.

The last time he was at a funeral he imagined that he'd lost Sherlock for good and he wasn't about to lose the great idiot over this loss.

* * *

By some miracle Spencer was able to take the ceremony without falling apart. He even endured the horrific burden of carrying her coffin with Sherlock, Mycroft, John and two other people he paid barely any attention to. But when she was safely in the ground, when there was nothing but standing around to do…

He found himself from the church's toilet. Sitting on one of the filthy seats, unable to even imagine getting up. He tried to remember how he got there but couldn't figure it out.

In the end he fished out his cell phone and switched it back on. 21 new phone calls and messages. All of them from his team, inquiring whether he was alright. Of course they knew that he wasn't, couldn't be.

The past few weeks had been pure hell. It would've been so tempting to just stay there in his own little bubble and pretend that the rest of the world didn't exist. But in the end the desire to hear a familiar voice was stronger.

Penelope picked up after just one ring. "_Hey, sweetie. How…?_"

"How's the case?" Spencer interrupted. The past torturous hours were the last thing he wanted to talk about. If he'd start crying now…

"_Long. Horrible._" She did sound exhausted. And worried. "_A suspect tried to flirt with Hotch today. A male suspect._"

There was some moisture in the chuckle that left Spencer's mouth. But at least his chest didn't feel quite so tight anymore. "Poor Hotch."

"_Poor suspect, more like._" Penelope then came to think of something. "_Oh, and I have a feeling that there'll be a patter of tiny feet soon. Yesterday JJ almost threw up on Rossi's shoes at the smell of his sandwich._"

Spencer found himself smiling, just a little bit. "Henry's going to be thrilled", he mused out loud, absentmindedly wiping away the moisture from his cheeks. "Do you think she knows?"

"_If she does and runs around like she has these past few days I'll smack her._" There was a brief pause. "_The others are calling in. Do you want to talk to them?_"

Spencer shook his head forcefully, then realized that she couldn't see it. "No, no. Just… Tell them that I'm okay. I'll be back soon."

"_Good. We miss you._" Penelope sighed. "_Look… I know that you don't want to hear this right now but it'll be okay. I promise._"

No, Spencer didn't want to hear that and definitely didn't believe it. But he couldn't bring himself to say as much. "Thanks." And he meant it. It was good to hear her voice. "Bye." With that he hung up, feeling exhausted but no longer crushed.

By the time Spencer finally left the safety of the booth he froze as he found Mycroft waiting for him. From the older man's expression it was impossible to tell how much he'd heard. "Ready to go?"

Spencer nodded slowly, feeling a little dazed. Sometimes it was too easy to forget that he wasn't alone in this. "Yeah. Let's go." The faster they left this place the better.

* * *

The three brothers and John didn't notice the lone figure observing them. As they left together the observer stood still for three seconds, then took the opposite way. One taxi-drive later he'd found his way to an airport.

A joyfully smiling, strikingly beautiful woman accepted his ticket. There was more than a little flirt in her eyes. "Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Powers."

A presumedly dead man who used to go by the name Erik Collins smiled back. The passport he pocketed claimed that he was Carl Powers. "I'm sure I will, Jenna."

* * *

Instead of going to the funeral reception with near strangers, to listen to them talking about Diana and to realize that they knew more about her than they did, the brothers decided to head back to her house. What they decided on doing was watching some home videos. It was unbearably painful when one of them remembered too much, the second had fought too hard to forget and the third remembered too little. But those videos, no matter how poor the quality and how heavy the load of unwanted feelings, were all they had left of her, now.

John cleared his throat, feeling like an intruder in the face of something so private. "I'll just, uh… Go, for a bit." He changed his mind when Sherlock's vice like grip on his hand tightened. When did the detective grab it? "Okay. Okay."

Miraculously enough they even found some videos with Sherlock and Mycroft on them. Such that she'd managed to salvage from William. The clips of her laughing and having fun with them were stark contrasts to what Mycroft had remembered and Sherlock imagined. There was one particularly touching clip where she was fast asleep with Mycroft and Sherlock, all of them with serene looks on their faces. She hugged Mycroft when the boy succeeded in blowing all the candles on his birthday cake. In a hushed tone she was lulling Sherlock to sleep with telling him absolutely everything she knew about the solar system. With a chuckle she watched how Spencer stole her cup of coffee and took a long sip, then grinned radiantly.

They barely made it through until there were just five videos left. Spencer frowned and wiped his eyes upon noticing one. "One of her nurses… She gave me that, when I last visited her."

Mycroft frowned as well. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

Spencer shook his head. "No. But… Let's find out."

Based on Diana's appearance the tape couldn't be more than about four or five years old. There was a tense, almost nervous look on her face while she made sure that the camera was on, then focused on them as though really able to see them. "_I'm recording this as a part of my therapy because… Well, apparently there are some things that I'm supposed to let go of._" She scoffed. "_Those morons…! Like I'd ever be able to let go of my own children. What sort of a monster asks that of a mother?_"

Sherlock shuddered visibly but didn't utter a sound.

Diana's eyes didn't seem entirely dry. "_Do you want to hear something that I'm not supposed to say? Sometimes being crazy isn't so bad. Because there are days when I forget. When I can imagine that you three are together, somewhere out there. Sharing those insane adventures that you all babbled about when you were children. My little pirates._" She wiped her eyes and didn't manage to go on until after a very long pause. Even then her voice broke. "_And then there are worse days. Those when I actually wonder for a moment. If I imagined you. All of it. It's so easy to get confused, with all the medication they keep pumping me with…_"

Mycroft tensed up. And even though Spencer had no idea what, exactly, the man had faced during his life he could see the shadows in those eyes. They'd been born out of a similar guilt that'd been weighing his own shoulders since he was eighteen.

"_Of course I didn't imagine it all._" There were still tears in Diana's eyes but she was smiling, no matter how much it wavered. "_A mother always knows._" She leaned closer, like trying to give them a long, good look. It was ridiculously hard not to mimic the gesture. "_I'm trying to see it with my mind's eye right now. The three of you, watching this together. All grown up. My handsome, brilliant boys. I wish that I would've had the chance to see it._" It wasn't until she wiped her eyes they noticed the tears. "_There are so many things that I regret. But you three not getting to grow up together…!_" The words faded away entirely there. Naked despair was loud and clear on her face. She swallowed loudly. "_Just… Know that I always loved you, from the bottom of my heart. For whatever it's worth, remember that I never, ever stopped loving you._" Her hand trembled while she reached it to switch off the camera. She changed her mind on the last minute, though, to add something. "_And because I have a feeling that you've all heard it too many times, like Mycroft did… Yes, sweetie, I know._" She licked her lips and visibly fought back the tears. "_You're not freaks, any of you. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. And I… I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that one day you'll all find someone who can make you believe that._" And then, with a single motion of her hand, the recording ended.

For a long while they all stared at the screen, like not quite understanding what they just saw. All three brothers trying to overcome the emotional overload it caused. Then Sherlock bounced up like he'd been on strings and dashed out of the room.

* * *

Sherlock had great, big plans as to where he was going. The only problem was that in his haste he forgot to take the car-keys. Walking it was, then. In the scorching, merciless heat of Las Vegas. His limbs felt heavier than lead and his head hurt from so many thoughts that he just couldn't process them all.

At the moment he could think of just one thing, and one thing only, that might tune down his screaming Mind Palace. And he was determined to find out where to get it. John wouldn't approve but then again, the doctor would never have to find out.

Sherlock had absolutely no idea how long he'd been walking, his planned destination fading further and further from his mind with each step. At first he barely noticed the car approaching him. He tensed up at the voice calling out to him. "Sherlock." When he refused to react there was a long, heavy sigh. "Look, it's been a long, horrible day for us all. And I really don't feel up to bailing you out of jail for whatever it is that you're planning on doing right now. So get in and I'll give you something that'll make you feel better."

More than a little unwillingly Sherlock indeed did stop and turn around. There was a challenge in his eyes and his heart was beating too fast from adrenaline and something that he couldn't name. "And what, exactly, do you reckon would make me… feel better?"

If Spencer was affected by the open mockery in his voice the man didn't show it. Instead the agent shrugged. "I feel like shooting something. Don't you?"

* * *

Mycroft wondered, against all reason, if it's possible for a person to drown on dry land. Because it felt like he was doing just that as he stood in the bathroom, leaning against the sink so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes were closed and his head was whirring painfully so he didn't realize that the door was unlocked before someone entered. "Where's Sherlock?" he asked instantly, instinctively.

"Spencer went after him." Seeming to sense his growing worry the former soldier went on. "Spencer's a federal agent, Mycroft. I'd assume that he's able to handle Sherlock." He could actually feel the man's frown. "Have you thrown up?"

Mycroft shook his head. Which, miraculously, was the truth. Although the urge was almost overwhelming.

"Good, that's good." John took a step closer. "Alright, off to bed with you. I'm knackered and I can't even imagine how you must be feeling."

Mycroft's brows furrowed while he finally opened his eyes. "Why are you doing this? We're not friends."

"Because I'm starting to realize that I _am_ an idiot and I've seen but haven't observed." An oddly gentle hand was laid to his shoulder. "Now, to bed. Or would you rather have me let Sherlock do this?"

* * *

Sherlock was surprised when Spencer didn't take him right back to Diana Reid's house. He was even more so when they walked up to a shooting range. When the agent allowed him to handle a gun the stun was too great to be hidden.

"I know exactly where you were going because…" Spencer looked away for a moment, pretended to focus on inspecting his own firearm. "Well, there was a time when I would've done the same." After a few long moments their eyes met once more. "Trust me, this is a healthier option."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow but didn't comment. If the situation had been a little less heavy he might've cracked a smile. Shoot or shoot up, then.

Spencer was the first one to take a go. Of course Sherlock had known to expect that a seasoned federal agent couldn't be a terrible shooter. But he was, begrudgingly, impressed by the accuracy of each and every rhythmic, sharp shot, made by perfectly steady hands. Each of them found their mark without the slightest fail.

When Spencer was finally done the man breathed loudly for a long moment, clearly fighting hard to get his adrenaline level under control. Then the younger man looked at him with eyes that weren't quite the same he'd learned to know during the short time they'd spent together. "Your turn."

Sherlock didn't hesitate for even a second. His own hands were remarkably even when he made sure that the gun was all set, then focused on his target board and took the first shot. A wave of pleasure went through him when it sunk exactly where it was supposed to. Encouraged, he took two more shots. Unleashing the roars that he wasn't willing to express out loud. Shouting out his rage to the entire world with every single bullet.

He was too eager and distracted. His aim wasn't perfect. There was a barely noticeable, sly twinkle in Spencer's eyes as the agent noticed this. Then took his own second round.

That was how the unwilling brothers spent the following couple of hours. Pretending that they weren't in a competition. Pretending that they weren't merely trying to keep themselves busy to avoid old, unhealthy habits that they'd fought long and hard to get rid of.

* * *

That evening Mycroft made his way to a park near the edge of the city. Some other day it might've amused him how out of place he, a tall and childless man in a suit, looked there in the middle of all the parents and giggling, running children. As it was all he saw was the woman sitting nearby in a pair of black jeans and a red shirt. Although signs of sorrow were on her face she looked just like he'd remembered her. Her eyes still held more fire than her hair. He wondered what she'd say about him re-naming one of his best agents in her honor. She'd probably chuckle at the sentiment.

As soon as she sensed him approaching Thea looked up. A smile lit up her entire face. "Hey. I was getting worried that you wouldn't show up."

He couldn't resist a smile of his own, even if it didn't reach his eyes. "I'll admit that this place was a surprise. I didn't know that you two had…" He didn't manage to voice the rest in fear of sounding more bitter than he should've.

"… children?" Her eyes softened, even if they held a hint of guilt. "We were married for almost seven years, Myc. It tends to happen."

"Hmm." He focused on the children, eventually spotting a five years old girl with sparkling eyes and an inferno of hair. She was too preoccupied to notice that her mom had company. The brush of melacholy was something he wasn't proud of. "Well, Thea… She's definitely her mother's daughter."

"Unfortunately. She's already destroyed most of the house." She observed him for a few seconds and frowned. "Are you… alright?"

Mycroft fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, fine. But I'd imagine that this catching up isn't why you invited me." A bit harsh, perhaps, but he hoped that she understood. This… wasn't easy on him.

Thea didn't seem offended. She looked down, biting her lip. "I… There's something I wanted to tell a friend. And when I heard that you're here…" She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Her eyes were on the little girl but it was obvious that her thoughts were far away. "Conrad… He left a note. It said that whatever I hear about him, I should remember that he loved me and Myra, that whatever he did he did for us."

Mycroft shivered, his mind already forming conclusions that he most certainly didn't like. A wave of nausea went through him. "Do you think that he could've done something stupid?" A mild word, really, if his suspicions would be proven correct.

Thea gritted her teeth. "I really wish that I could say no, but… If Myra or I were threatened, definitely." Her eyes were hard and full of worry and affection at the same time when she looked at him. "I know exactly what kind of sick freaks he worked with. Nothing's leaked to the press but I have a really bad feeling about this."

Mycroft nodded slowly. His hand twitched, the desire to grab hers almost overwhelming until he reminded himself that he lost the right ages ago. "I'll have my men have a look." His jawline tightened and he had to focus on Myra to avoid looking at Thea for longer than would've been wise. "I won't let anything happen to you two, either."

"I know you won't. That you won't let anything happen to anyone you care about. And that's what scares me." She did take his hand. Her skin felt just like he'd remembered, which was wonderful and horrible all at once. "You still refuse to believe that you can't protect everyone. One day it's going to hurt you, badly."

Mycroft wouldn't comment. Instead he tilted his head backwards and closed his eyes. "There's an east wind coming."

"Yeah", Thea confirmed. Her hand's hold on his tightened marginally. "I just hope that we're ready for it."

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Well, the funeral's officially over. There was even a hint of brotherly bonding! BUUUUUUUT, there's also a great deal of threat lurking under the surface… There's definitely an east wind coming.

Soooo, **AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT AS TO THE FUTURE OF THIS FIC. **It looks like the next chapter is going to be the last chapter of THIS story – it feels like a natural spot to leave this. THEN, there's going to be a sequel, because you don't sound averse to the thought. June will be INSANELY busy for me in the BEST way possible. SOOO, the first chapter of the sequel should be launched either at the very end of June or the first weekend of July. I know, I know, a bit of a gap, but there's no way to avoid it.

How does that sound to you guys? Are you on board?

I've REALLY gotta get going now. Until next time, folks! I really hope that you'll join in then.

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Those poor boys, eh? (winces) Let's hope that something good will prevail eventually. We'll see just how this story continues…

I'm soooooooo not a William Reid fan, either. (shudders)

Monumental thank yous for the review!

* * *

**lay**: It'd be FANTASTIC to see some brotherly bonding, wouldn't it? (grins) Those three could be such an asset for one another. We'll see just what follows next.

Colossal thank yous for the review!


	14. The End is Where We Begin

A/N: Yup, it's time for the last chapter of this part of the story. (Dang, that seems complicated, typed out, heh.) BUT, before getting to that…

THANK YOU, so very much, for your reviews and support! They mean more than you could ever imagine. (HUGS)

Awkay, because I have a feeling that you want to get to the actual story… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

**OH, AND BY THE WAY! **There's an additional warning **below the chapter**. I placed it there to avoid spoilers…

* * *

The End is Where We Begin

* * *

/ _Sherlock really imagined that no one knew that while he never visited his brother's hospital room, he did visit the hospital. Every single day, no matter how bad off he was, he entered the ward and demanded answers. Sometimes his style of approach had him kicked out before he got any information but still he came, every day, carefully avoiding Mycroft's other visitors._

_His silly little game lasted until one very late evening a voice called out to him just as he was about to sneak off._

_"I've waited for a long time to have a chat with you", a female voice he'd only heard once before noted. "You're hard to get a hold of, I'll give you that. In case you're wondering, Mycroft doesn't know that you're here."_

_Sherlock stiffened. It took some time before he turned towards the woman. As though having a will of their own, his eyes strayed towards her belly. "Does he know about that, too?"_

_"That I lost our baby on the day when he got shot? Because right there I chose his safety over the baby's? No, I haven't felt the need to tell him." Thea took a deep breath that shuddered a little. "It's bad enough that I'm leaving."_

_Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could see that she was sorry and aching. That somewhere underneath the surface she was barely holding on. Still his eyes narrowed. "He isn't going to take it well."_

_Thea smiled sadly, looking out the window. "I wanted to wait until he was better before telling him. But he saw it as soon as he woke up. Of course he did. And he wasn't happy." She sighed and looked at him once more. "Me staying wouldn't do either of us any good." She licked her lips and ran a suddenly unsteady hand through her hair. "There's… There are things that I can't tell either one of you right now. There's no way that I could make him understand. But… Could you do something for me? Even if I have no right to ask for favors?"_

_Sherlock nodded stiffly, unsure if this was really something he could or wanted to promise._

_"If he asks, tell him that I meant it." Her eyes softened. "And make sure that doesn't become the Iceman that he imagines he is. He deserves much better than that."_

_Sherlock remained absolutely still for a moment. Then snorted. "What makes you think that I could do that even if I wanted to?"_

_"Because you two care about each other more than you imagine." There was something he couldn't read on Thea's face. "And for your sake as much as his, I hope that you realize it before it's too late." She then turned around, beginning to head back to Mycroft's room. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock, and get sober. You deserve better, too." With that as her final verdict she was gone._

_Sherlock stared at the direction she went for a mighty moment. Then spun around and headed out. It wasn't an instant ticket to sobriety. Nor was it a magic potion to fix the brotherly bond between him and Mycroft that somehow went so very wrong somewhere along the way. But Thea's words kept nagging at Sherlock. And two weeks later, when Mycroft was discharged against his doctor's advice and Thea was without a doubt gone, he even contemplated going to see his brother. Instead he stayed at the lousy, tiny flat that was supposed to be his home and composed a song for the niece or nephew that he almost had. It was his first original composition. And the first day in a long time he was sober._ /

* * *

/ _Studies and his mom going through a yet another rougher patch kept Spencer from thinking about the whole strange name incident with his flatmate very much. He was relieved that he didn't see much of Jim, though. And on one cold, rainy evening the man disappeared from his life entirely. At least for a very long time._

_Spencer was exhausted enough to start dozing off on his physics book when he heard noises from the direction of Jim's room. He frowned, suddenly very much alert, and although a part of him was screaming warnings he eventually headed off for a search. He froze to the hallway._

_Jim was by the apartment's door, several bags packed. Long term plans, then. Spencer's eyebrows furrowed. "You're leaving", the stated the obvious._

_"A family emergency", Jim explained while pulling on his coat, his patience so feigned that even Spencer could hear it. The tone was still as smooth as usual, free of any traces of worry and anxiety. "And I've never been very good at staying in one place, anyway."_

_Spencer nodded slowly, wondering if he should say that he was sorry or not. Jim certainly didn't seem sorry. "Will you, ah… Will you come back?" Well, he felt like he needed to say something and that was the first thing that came to mind._

_Jim shrugged with ease. "Nah, probably not." And that was the first time he heard traces of a foreign accent that'd been hidden remarkably well so far. "Staying in one place is horribly boring. Makes me feel all… restless." A wide, bright smirk revealed a row of flawless white teeth. "Catch you later, Spencer." For some reason it sounded like there was something horribly ominous hiding behind those words._

_Spencer didn't have the chance to react much. By the time he'd blinked twice Jim was already gone. Like a flicker of his imagination or a nightmare. The only thing left was the lingering scent of the man's cologne._

_Spencer didn't know what force pulled him there. But for some reason his feet led him to a window. What he saw outside brought a frown to his face._

_It was pouring rain so hard that it was difficult to see. He was fairly sure that he distinguished a sleek, black car on the street below. Despite the weather Jim's steps were slow and confident as the man approached the vehicle. And that was when the car's backdoor opened. Out came a man that made Spencer's eyes widen._

_Was it the rain, doing tricks on him? Or was it his mind? Or his eyesight?_

_Because for a few moments he could've sworn that he saw not one, but two Jims on the street. Perfectly alike, down to the very last detail. As far as he could tell from the rain, anyway. Then, just as unexpectedly as the whole sight presented itself, both men were gone and the car was disappearing to a distant unknown. Leaving Spencer wondering if this was all indeed a part of some weird dream._

_How was he supposed to know that it was only an echo of the nightmare still to come? _/

* * *

Wind blew over the graveyard as the three recently united brothers stood before their mother's grave, which was still bathing in fresh flowers. Some person passing by might've called the sight beautiful. That word was the furthest adjective in the brothers' minds.

"She'd be happy if she saw us here, together", Spencer stated at last, breaking the long silence. It had been her greatest wish, after all. It was quite tragic that in death she'd finally achieved what she never succeeded in orchestrating while she was alive. Spencer didn't quite manage to believe that she was watching them from somewhere up above but he hoped that she knew anyway, somehow.

The Brits didn't respond, which wasn't a surprise. Nor were any words necessary, really. In many ways this, her grave and the goodbyes, was the end. But maybe, just maybe, this was also the beginning.

Finally deciding that they'd had enough of the gloomy sight they turned and began to walk away. Above them ominous dark clouds were gathering but it wasn't raining yet. "When are you going back to Virginia?" Mycroft asked while they passed by an angel statue.

Yes, in a way it would've been tempting to stay in this bizarre bubble of ghosts from the past and slowly unraveling family secrets. But they all had homes to go to. Lives to get back to.

Spencer shivered. It felt strange to think about going home, to the life as he'd known it, after everything that had happened lately. When the whole tale of who he was and where he came from, what his family was, had been twisted upside down. When there would be new cases, new tears and adventures, and he couldn't write to his mom about them. "On a night flight today", he murmured, wiping away the first fallen raindrop from his cheek. "In a few hours I'll show the house to a real estate agent and we'll seal the deal. After that… Back to the usual, I guess." Back to cases. Back to his BAU-family. Even if nothing would ever be the same again.

They stopped about ten steps away from where two cars were waiting, with John stood by one of them. None of the three quite knew what to say. Surely goodbye wouldn't be accurate because somehow they knew that they'd meet again.

"Well…", Mycroft began at last. It was raining quite hard by then. "Have a safe flight home." The way the usually stoic man shifted weight from one leg to another was quite adorable.

Spencer had to smile, just a little bit. "You too. And take care of yourselves, both of you." From what he'd been able to profile the two were entirely too good at forgetting that.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a dramatically suffering expression. Mycroft had marginally more self restraint. Spencer had to bite his lip to prevent what might've been a chuckle or a groan.

They didn't exchange hugs, of course they didn't. Nor were there any words of affection. But something had most definitely changed between the three of them. Somewhere along the way the subject of meeting again was brought up.

Sherlock shrugged. The detective probably didn't look as indifferent as he would've wanted to. "Well, there's always the awful Christmas dinners."

And so the British trio began to take their leave. Spencer and John exchanged nods, saying their byes from afar. Neither of them was all that big for fancy words. Just one look spoke everything necessary.

After the Brits left Spencer stood absolutely still for a while. For some reason a cold shiver found its way all the way through him. All of a sudden he didn't feel as alone as he would've wanted to at the graveyard. Perhaps he took the opposite way as he jumped into his car, but he had a feeling that the paths of him and his brothers wouldn't be separated now that they'd found each other.

Only time would tell if that was a good thing or not.

* * *

The three Brits' flight back home was calm and quiet, with all of them deep in thought. The brothers had more than enough to think about after everything that'd happened lately and John was simply happy to go back home, pleased that Mary hadn't gone into labour while he was away. By the time they landed the clock had reached a very late hour of the night. Mycroft stretched, moving his head from side to side. His mind still felt sluggish.

"Sherlock?" John's voice snapped him free of his thoughts.

Curious, Mycroft peered over his shoulder and couldn't resist a barely visible grin. It took a lot of willpower to keep a chuckle at bay. "Well, isn't that a heartwarming sight…"

Somewhere during the flight Sherlock had fallen asleep, so that his head was leaning against the doctor's shoulder. In fact, somehow the tall man was almost snuggled against his friend. Irritation, amusement and helplessness all flickered in John's eyes. "Oh, I'm glad that you find this so funny. You know how bloody hard he is to wake up when he finally decides to crash." Stunningly gently the smaller man nudged at the sleeve of Sherlock's coat. "Hey, sleepy head, we're home. Do you think you could wake up for a second?"

Sherlock growled and squeezed his eyes even more tightly shut, not giving any sign of planning on budging anywhere.

John groaned, nudging at the detective again. "Look, I'm glad that you got some rest. But it's time to go home."

"To Baker Street?" came a barely comprehensible inquiry.

John smiled and nodded. So what if the other couldn't see it? "Yeah, obviously."

Slowly and stiffly, clearly far more than halfway asleep still, Sherlock distanced himself from John just enough to be able to move and began to navigate his way towards the jet's door. The former soldier gave Mycroft a look while the two passed by. "I'll make sure that he makes it home safely and gets some proper sleep." And there was no doubt that John would do just that. "Goodnight."

Mycroft nodded, not feeling any particular need to give a verbal response.

Mycroft watched the two of them go, a frown finding its way to his face. Both of his brothers were in safe hands. So why was there still a bad feeling swelling in the pit of his stomach? Why did his body and mind refuse to relax?

As though to answer his question, just then his cell phone began to ring. His jaw tightened at the sight of an unfamiliar number. Those never brought good news. He picked up after signaling at the crew members still on board to trace the call. "What do you want?"

"_Mycroft Holmes, where are your manners?_" a very much familiar, impossible voice greeted him. There was a click of a tongue. "_That's no way to greet an old friend._"

Mycroft could feel his heartrate spiking up. His eyes scanned towards where Sherlock and John were disppearing into distance. "You're dead", he growled, the sound echoing from deep within his throat.

"_Oh, don't be dull. That's what Sherlock and I have in common. We are known for being indestructible._" There was a tiny, bone chilling pause. "_You see, I really did miss you and your brother. You're the most amusing toys I've had in a very, very long time._" The other man sighed with mocked misery. "_Why, oh why, did you both have to go and break the rules? We could've had so much fun together. Now I'm going to have to punish you._"

Mycroft's eyes shifted to the side, subtly yet enough to see the agent tracing the call shaking her head with a frustrated expression. Impossible to track down, then. "And how, exactly, are you going to do that?"

"_By keeping an old promise. I… will burn… the hearts out of you both._" The other's tone was nothing short of purring. "_I started with unleashing the powers of hell upon you._"

* * *

When Mary woke up in the dead of night she could instantly tell that something was wrong. And it wasn't just the absence of John. She frowned, rubbing soothing circles on her stomach when the baby kept moving around restlessly. For a long time she simply sat there, listening and preparing herself for absolutely anything. She couldn't hear or smell anything out of the ordinary. Apart from her unborn daughter's motions she wasn't able to feel anything out of place, either. Still the alarm bells in her head refused to be silenced.

Feeling on the edge and far too wired up to go back to sleep she pushed herself up and headed to the kitchen, where she took a long sip from a water bottle and filled a glass. Maybe she was just thirsty. Or paranoid. Or both. Of course she wasn't.

"You still wear the same perfume." The unwanted visitor took a long, deep breath. "Oh, Anna. Clair de la Lune doesn't suit anyone as well as it does you."

As quickly as she could Mary shifted so that she had a clear view to the doorway, backing towards the kitchen table. Her eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed.

Erik Collins smiled. The last time they were together it was during a particularly infuriating mission, at a cheap motel in the middle of nowhere. Now he held a gun at her. "I wish that this was a social call, but I'm afraid that it's all business. I'd appreciate it if you kept both hands where I can see them."

Mary gritted her teeth and instinctively brought a hand up to shield her stomach. Her head whirred as she went through her options. Slowly and unnoticeably her free hand reached out towards where she'd fastened a gun to the bottom of the kitchen table.

She was good. Of course she was. But the man stood at the doorway was just as well trained and experienced. And she was heavily pregnant.

"You know that I don't like… handling those in your condition. It goes against every single code of honor I used to swear on." With a quick, whip like motion Erik brought his gun lower and took a shot at the table, mere inches from where her fingers were. It sounded horribly loud to her despite the silencer. "And you are a special case. Always have been." He sighed, approaching her with slow steps. "This world is going to be a great deal more boring without you in it. Even if you've kept convincing yourself that you're not _that _woman anymore."

Despair is a funny thing. Despite knowing full well that she'd never be fast enough Mary attempted to reach out once more. Only to realize that absolutely all of her was paralyzed. Against her will her eyes widened a fraction while realization flooded in.

The glass of water she'd been holding fell to the floor, shards and droplets of water splashing everywhere in a mighty shower.

"I apologize for such a cheap move." And in his own, chilling way Erik actually did seem sorry. "But surely you understand that I can't take any risks with you."

The bitter irony was that Mary really, honestly couldn't blame him. Because she would've done the exact same thing. She was, after all, a woman who once upon a time, in a different life as Moriarty's hired gun, held a firearm at the man she'd end up marrying. A woman who later shot at a good man to keep her family.

But it was very hard to think rationally when she could feel the poison spreading through her system. Paralyzing her muscles. Her heart. Her lungs. Slowly, inevitably.

Unable to keep herself upright anymore she slid to the floor. At first to her knees, as though sinking to some twisted version of a prayer. Then all the way down, so that her gradually blurring eyes were staring at the ceiling. She and John spent such a long time choosing just the right shade of white to paint it with. It was a pity that she'd never see it finished.

_John…!_

Some tears rolled down her cheeks. It was a small mercy that she'd never know of them. Not when she was struggling to breathe. When she could feel the baby squirming desperately and couldn't even…

Erik sat down next to her. There was a strange look on his face that she didn't manage to read. "This isn't personal. I want you to know that. Sherlock… He simply managed to step on the wrong toes. You'll be my message to him." He leaned against the wall, taking a more comfortable position. "It's only a matter of minutes, now. I know that you can feel it. I'll keep you company. You're a colleague, after all. I can't let you die alone."

Mary tried to hiss out a response but she couldn't even breathe properly anymore. Couldn't breathe at all, really. And so she lay there, stuck on dying and listening to a clock ticking somewhere in the distance. Underneath her hand she could somehow distinguish the baby's movements slowing down. Or maybe she just couldn't feel all of them anymore. Tears she wasn't aware of and her companion chose not to point out ran down her cheeks.

_Not this… Not like this, please… Not like this…!_

* * *

**_End of this part of the story._**

* * *

**ADDITIONAL WARNING**: CHARACTER DEATH

* * *

A/N: I know. I know. (winces) But this, unfortunately, is the ending that I saw at the very beginning of this story. It's horribly tragic. And how it'll affect both John and his friendship with Sherlock… Only time will tell. And now they've got both Erik Collins and, apparently, Moriarty after them.

**As for the sequel!** Because I've understood that there are those of you who want to see it…? I prefer starting to air it when I can promise frequent updates. And so, the first chapter will see daylight on the last Saturday or Sunday of June. **And it WILL be rated M.** The rating, as those who know my former works can tell, isn't an empty one. (winces) Sooooo… I really hope that you'll all stay tuned for that one.

THANK YOU, so very much, for reading this one and for all the reviews, listings, love and support! I still can't believe how many friends this lil' tale managed to snatch along the way. (BEAMS)

Awkay, I've gotta tune out now, to get this published. Who knows. Maybe I'll see ya again?

Take care!

* * *

**Guest**: Awww, let me assure you that I don't! (chuckles and hugs) I'm thrilled that you've enjoyed the story, and that you sound eager to read the sequel.

Massive thank yous for the review!


	15. A THANK YOU OVER THIS STORY'S NOMINATION

Hiya there, everyone!

I'm publishing this tiny author's note to announce some exciting news. This story has been nominated for the Profiler's Choice Awards 2015, to compete over the best crossover -story title! I have NO IDEA who nominated this but THANK YOU! No matter what happens in the actual poll I'm insanely happy and flattered about this massive honor.

ALSO, I've been nominated to compete over the best overall author title. Which is a even bigger honor! That you guys read my lil' stories and seem to think so highly of them, and my skills... It warms my heart more than you could ever imagine. So THANK YOU! This is amazing!

Do go and check out all the nominees! The poll will be open until February 29th.

Once again, thank you! You guys are AMAZING and it's a joy to type to you. Who knows, maybe we'll cross paths one day. (grins) Until then, take care!

With a humble bow and a ridiculously happy smile,

Sandylee


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